


Scars Beyond Counting

by salacious_crumpet



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Male Friendship, Past Torture, Post-Demands of the Qun (Inquisition), Spoilers, Torture, Touch-Starved, Trespasser DLC, Unreliable Narrator, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-04-20 18:10:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 77,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salacious_crumpet/pseuds/salacious_crumpet
Summary: Commander Cullen Rutherford, the Iron Bull and Solas are taken captive and must rely upon each other to escape.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here goes my first dip into the terrifyingly large Dragon Age fandom. Please don't hurt me.
> 
> As a note, I am a huge, _huge_ fan of Bullen, Cullrian and Adorcubull pairings (seriously, send me all those fics, I will devour them), but those relationships are not this fic's end-goal; instead, the Iron Bull is paired with Dorian Pavus while Cullen Rutherford is paired with my female Lavellan. Also, I am not one of those writers who leaves the Inquisitor deliberately vague so that she can be a reader insert. That's totally cool for other people, but it does nothing for me, and thus Lyre Lavellan is her own person, lumps and all.
> 
> People familiar with my work know that I love hurt/comfort. I also love badasses being badasses, and self-rescuing badasses? Even better. So here are three badasses rescuing themselves (and each other). Or at least trying to. Eventually. After a judicious helping of whump. :D
> 
> ETA: I decided to up the rating because of the tagged content (specifically, torture and non-con), as well as Bull's over-fondness for the word "fuck" and all its variations.

The Iron Bull was not so insecure that he needed to be proven right all the time, or that he felt any satisfaction in knowing his suspicions were correct when the rebel mages – for that is what he was certain they were – dragged Cullen away for the third time. The first time they came and pulled the Commander of the Inquisition’s Army out of their squalid cell, Bull had felt mild surprise; surely, the mages would have wanted to soften _him_ up first, keeping the big Qunari quiet and docile before moving on to the other smaller, squishier members of their group. But no: the burlier of the mages swept into the cell, grabbed the still-dazed Cullen and hauled him away, leaving the Iron Bull and an unconscious Solas behind.

The second time it happened, Bull’s suspicions, already piqued, were heightened. Cullen, face still bruised and bloodied from his first interrogation, struggled only briefly before one of the mages made a threatening move towards Solas. When it was obvious his noncompliance would result in injury to his companions, Cullen had acquiesced, back going ramrod straight as he marched out of the cell himself, without any aid or any need on the mages’ part to draw him out. He might as well have been marching in a military parade rather than going off somewhere to be beaten – or worse.

The first two times Cullen had been returned to their cell battered and bruised but with a faint smirk tugging at his scarred lip, the same smirk he wore whenever he trounced Dorian at chess (which was almost _all_ the time, even when Dorian cheated – _especially_ when Dorian cheated). He’d slumped back against the rough stone wall – their prison was a small dead end in a series of caves, the entrance blocked by a sturdy row of solid iron bars that Cullen’s best efforts could not budge – and glared up at their captors until the mages had retreated.

“How you doin’, Commander?” Bull had asked, taking stock of the fresh bruising on Cullen’s face, the blood along his hairline, and the tender, cautious way he curled one arm around his midsection.

Cullen had shrugged wearily, honey-brown eyes falling closed. “What they lack in technique, they make up for in enthusiasm.”

The third time the guards came for him Cullen had heard them coming and was already up and standing, ready to meet them. He might as well have been clad in his full armoured regalia rather than the bloodied linen shirt and trousers they’d left him in. Bull had seen the nonplussed expressions the two mages exchanged before their cell was opened; no doubt they had expected Cullen to be somewhat more cowed, after the thrashings he had received the last two times they’d come for him. Instead they covered their confusion with renewed hostility, clamping hands around Cullen’s already-bruised arms and hauling him forward so quickly he tripped over the slight rise in the stone.

Solas waited until they were out of earshot before speaking, his voice pitched low and soft to avoid being heard by anyone other than Bull: “They know who he is.”

“Yup.” The Iron Bull nodded, the metal chains that had been wrapped around his horns clanking and pulling, preventing him from moving his head too much or too quickly. The weight of the irons made his head ache, right at the base where his horns met the skull, a bone-deep pain that went right down his spine. Sitting on the cold stone ground wasn’t doing him any favours: his body, already battered from the fight that had preceded their capture – never mind the damage done to him by a lifetime of hard living and hard choices – felt like one giant mass of bruising, from his skull to the tips of his bared toes. The theft of his boots – which couldn’t _possibly_ have fit _any_ of their captors – was just adding insult to injury, really; what possible use could the rebel mages have for a pair of Qunari-sized boots? His leather harness had been taken as well, which was less surprising given that it was very obviously armour and heavily enchanted to ward off a variety of elemental damages. At least he’d been left with his trousers, the great big green-and-yellow-striped “monstrosities” that Dorian loved to liken to a circus tent. It was better than having his bits flapping in the breeze, although he liked to think that the mages had left him his pants to avoid the embarrassment of having to see his massive Qunari cock swinging about.

Bull briefly entertained himself with the mental image of using his cock as a weapon (a cudgel of some sort, perhaps, or maybe a battering ram), then sighed and met Solas’s gaze. The apostate elf was in marginally better condition than Bull and Cullen: he’d been knocked unconscious during their capture and then kept drugged with magebane and other soporific herbs before being fitted with a Qunari-style Saarebas collar. There was no need – and relatively little enjoyment, at least in Bull’s opinion – in beating an unconscious man, and as such Solas had been largely left unmolested, although Bull suspected the mage would have preferred a few more bruises over the collar that denied him access to the Fade and his magic.

“The Commander was probably their target all along,” the Iron Bull continued, his own voice as quiet as the elven mage’s. He had seen the way the apostates had looked at Cullen, the anger on their faces and the wariness in their eyes. They knew him, or knew of him. Of course they did: the ex-Templar who led the Inquisition’s army, there was little chance they hadn’t heard of him.

It made sense, if anything the rebel mages did could be said to make sense. Cullen Rutherford was the head of the Inquisition’s military arm, the man responsible for planning and carrying out the siege at Adamant as well as countless skirmishes against Corypheus’s forces. He was one of Inquisitor Lavellan’s chief advisors – not to mention the elven Inquisitor’s lover, which carried a weight all on its own. While Bull was confident that Cullen had the discipline and devotion to duty necessary to prevent him from succumbing to threats against his paramour, he was less certain of Lyre Lavellan’s ability to overlook attacks against her lover. Cullen would certainly do whatever he could to keep the Inquisitor alive – he loved her, but she was also the only person in all of Thedas who could close the Rifts – but if sacrificing her meant saving the world, Bull suspected Cullen could do it. It would kill him, but _he would do it._ Lyre, on the other hand … Well, the Iron Bull loved the little elf like the sister he never had, but she was far too tender-hearted to put the needs of the many over the needs of the few. It was why she had advisors and Inner Circle members to counsel her: Cullen and Leliana and Cassandra – and indeed, Bull himself – could make the hard calls that Lyre herself could not. He didn’t begrudge her for it; point of fact, Lyre’s soft heart was one of the many things he loved about her. He was just grateful that Cassandra and Leliana were back in Skyhold with her, because he knew the moment Lyre Lavellan found out her lover had been taken – not to mention the Iron Bull and Solas as well – she would want to mount an armed rescue, putting herself and all of Thedas on the line for the sake of love and friendship.

Never mind the risks Lyre’s foolish heart posed: Commander Cullen was possessed of sensitive information, information that their enemies would be fools to ignore. Capturing him – if they could get him to talk – was a real coup. _Getting_ him to talk would be the difficulty. Bull couldn’t think of three worse people for the rebel mages to have captured to interrogate: an elven apostate with the smooth, unyielding composure of a mountain, a former Ben-Hassrath spy trained to withstand interrogation and skilled at gathering counter-intelligence, and an ex-Templar whose rather extensive file (which Bull had committed to memory long before meeting up with Lyre Lavellan on the Storm Coast) indicated past experience with captivity and torture, and an iron will that far outshone even the most exemplary members of his old Order. No, the only people less likely to succumb to amateur interrogation techniques were Leliana and Vivienne, and Bull felt a palpable sense of relief that neither Red nor Ma’am should be trapped there with them. This was no place for a lady. (It was also no place for a Qunari spy-turned-mercenary, a smug elven apostate or a good ol’ Chantry boy, but that was neither here nor there.)

Solas’s expression was pinched, and in the darkness of their small cell Bull could see his pointed ears twitching as the elf turned his head towards the exit, no doubt attempting to pick up sounds from wherever the rebel mages had taken Cullen. Bull had learned the first two times Cullen had been interrogated that either the distance was too great or the spaces were too sound-proofed: in spite of his own highly excellent hearing, he had not been able to discern even the least muffled noises coming from Cullen’s interrogation. Solas listened for a moment before sighing and shaking his head, one long-fingered hand reaching up to his chest for the jawbone necklace that normally rested there. The necklace, along with Bull’s boots (seriously, who stole someone’s boots?!), their weapons, armour and other gear, had been taken. No doubt their enemies had viewed the jagged hunk of bone as a potential weapon – Bull knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that _he_ could have made it such. But Ben-Hassrath training was extensive, and the Iron Bull could make almost anything into a weapon.

They had also taken Bull’s eyepatch. Having his missing and badly-scarred left eye exposed bothered Bull more than he could say. He felt more naked without the eyepatch than he would have had he been left with his tackle hanging out. Worst of all, the bastards had taken his ankle-brace, and yeah, he could abso- _fucking_ -lutely use that as a weapon (and had, on more than one memorable occasion, although the damned thing always had to be repaired afterwards), but mostly he just really, really wanted it to _support his fucking ankle_. The Iron Bull could walk and fight without the brace, if he had to, but it wasn’t going to be good for his leg; Stitches would never let him hear the end of it, even if his complaints would all be politely worded and filled with deferential “ser” this and “ser” that.

“I cannot hear anything,” Solas said finally, tucking himself into a cross-legged position and only just barely resisting the urge to fiddle with the mage-collar around his neck. The first time he had noticed the collar his entire body had gone stiff with tension, his stormy blue-grey eyes going wide and blank. It had reminded Bull of watching the first time Dorian had trained with the few Templars who had joined their cause: one of the Templars had hit him with a Silence and followed it up by a Cleanse, and Dorian had been gobsmacked. Afterwards, he had told Bull it was that sudden loss of connection to the Fade that had hit him so hard: never before in his life had he felt so incredibly helpless. Both Solas and Dorian were exceptionally powerful mages, and Bull could not even begin to imagine what it must feel like to have that power stripped away. Yes, it was only temporary – in Dorian’s case it had simply taken time for the Silence and Cleanse to wear off, and in Solas’s case once the Saarebas collar was removed and the magebane was out of his system he would be back to himself – but still. _Still_. The closest Bull could get to imagining their fear and helplessness was remembering what it had been like to wake up for the first time after losing his eye to that flail, years ago. Dorian had come to Bull’s bed that night, not for sex, but for companionship and comfort; even with his magic returned to him he had felt that lingering sense of powerlessness. And Solas, meanwhile, was trapped in a cell with enemy mages who even now were in the process of torturing one of their friends. “Helpless” probably could not even _begin_ to describe Solas’s feelings.

“Me neither,” Bull admitted. He wished he could turn his head towards the hall; he had a nagging sense that if he could just move a little bit more he might be able to pick up on whatever was happening with Cullen. But no, the chains that bound his horns kept his head firmly locked in place and forced his body to remain seated at the very back of their cell, as far away from the exit as it was possible to get. The mages were afraid of him (that thought, at least, made him feel all warm and tingly inside) and wanted him kept as secure as possible.

“I am sorry.” Solas’s tone was thoughtful, his eyes downcast. “That must be dreadfully uncomfortable.”

Bull considered and discarded a number of responses before settling on, “And you’re not?” He gestured towards the mage-collar with his left hand, the fingers of his right digging into the growing ache at the base of his skull.

“A different kind of discomfort,” Solas acknowledged with a faint smile, “but I at least have freedom of movement.” He sighed, grimacing, and added, “For all the good it does us.”

Bull returned the sigh and sank back against the wall, feeling the chains slacken just a little as the back of his head brushed against cold stone. He wished he had a mirror so that he could examine the chains that bound him. He wished he had a set of lockpicks – his best set had been tucked into his belt-pouch and had been among the things taken upon their capture. He wished he had his boots back. Or his harness. Or even just his fucking eyepatch.

“I don’t suppose you know how to pick locks?” Bull asked hopefully. “Or that you’ve got a lockpick on you?”

“Regrettably, _lethallin_ , the answer to both those questions is ‘no.’”

Bull grunted. “Figured.”

It wasn’t that the Iron Bull was impatient. He’d had years of Ben-Hassrath training and experience to work that shit out of his system. He could sit a stakeout for days, had once camped out the same alley on Seheron for well over a week to catch Tevinter spies feeding funds and weaponry to the native rebels: he knew how to be patient and bide his time. But this? Sitting chained to the wall of a cell, unable to do anything while his friend was being used as a training dummy by grumpy mages? This was bullshit. He wanted the mages to talk to him, wanted the opportunity to turn their questions around on them and try to figure a way out of this. He was good at that shit, it was what he did best, other than ripping people apart with his bare hands. The rebel mages weren’t talking to him or to Solas, they were barely even acknowledging their existence, save to force-feed Solas more magebane and ensure they kept well out of reach of the Iron Bull’s incredibly long arms.

Fucking bullshit.

The only ray of light, so far as the Bull was concerned, was that Dorian, Blackwall and Sera hadn’t been taken, too. As much as Bull would’ve loved to see his flirty ‘Vint’s pretty face, this cell was no place for Dorian. Blackwall probably would’ve found himself chained to the wall just as Bull was. And Sera … actually, no, Sera might have had a set of lockpicks hidden on her somewhere and probably could’ve figured out a way to get them out of there. Or she would have mouthed off and gotten herself killed. Even odds, really.

The six of them – Cullen, the Iron Bull, Solas, Dorian, Blackwall and Sera – had accompanied a scouting party of Inquisition soldiers on the Storm Coast, investigating a stretch of caves that the Red Templars were rumoured to be using. Even before they had left Skyhold Bull had questioned the need for the Commander of the Inquisition to come with them, but the rumours had mentioned Raleigh Samson, and Cullen’s vendetta against the Red General of Corypheus’s army was well-known. So well-known, in fact, that Bull now wondered if those rumours had been a deliberate ploy to lure Cullen out of Skyhold and away from the safety of Inquisition forces. The Rifts on the Storm Coast were all closed and the caverns leading into the Dark Roads, from which the darkspawn had been escaping, had already been dealt with: in short, the Storm Coast was as safe as it could be, and the Red Templars were the only serious threat. Hindsight being what it was, Bull was kicking himself for not seeing the real threat, the inherent trap.

It hadn’t been Red Templars that had found them, however. It had been rebel mages, dozens of them, that had descended from the mountains and taken their party by surprise. Even then, it wasn’t as though the Commander and the five Inner Circle members were inexperienced or unaccustomed to ambushes. They fought well, backed up by the Inquisition soldiers, but it had rapidly become clear to the Iron Bull that Cullen was the target. He didn’t remember how it was that he and Solas ended up cut off with the Commander – he remembered that he had been sticking by the ex-Templar’s side, but Bull had no recollection of Solas joining them, when the mage typically fought at a distance. All Bull remembered was the very real worry that the rebel mages were going to capture them all, and then Solas had thrown up a wall of ice that blocked off the rest of their party. It had led to the three of them being taken, cut off from the rest of their support, but it had ensured that Blackwall was able to get the others away safely.

Bull hoped.

The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the sound of Dorian cursing up a storm in Tevene, and thinking how far away the necromancer sounded. Dorian was going to be pissed when Bull got back.

_If_ Bull got back.

_Fuck off,_ Bull told that nagging worry in the back of his head, the voice that clamoured that he and Cullen and Solas were dead, that the rebel mages would kill them or hand them off to the Venatori, to be turned over to Corypheus …

The scrape of footsteps outside their cell caught Bull’s attention, immediately dragging him away from his rapidly-escalating thoughts. Solas shrank back against the stone wall, falling in close beside Bull – whether in search of Bull’s protection, or to protect Bull himself, it was difficult to say from the elven mage’s posture. (Knowing what he did of Solas, Bull suspected the truth was a combination: that Solas wanted to give the _appearance_ of seeking his protection while simultaneously putting himself in position to keep Bull safe. The elf was a complicated, complex man. And sneaky as shit when he wanted to be.) The light from a torch brightened up the hallway beyond their cell as two mages came forward, Cullen half-supported between them. One of the mages fumbled with the keys before throwing the cell door open, and then Cullen was tossed inside, careening forward on legs that seemed seconds away from collapse.

Instinct pushed Bull to move to catch Cullen before the Commander could hit the ground, but the moment Bull moved the chains pulled taut, jerking his head back. Solas suffered no such restrictions, however, and quickly darted forward just as Cullen dropped. Cullen outweighed the skinny elf by a fair margin but Solas was surprisingly strong, catching the bulky human around the waist and guiding him over to where Bull was chained. Behind Cullen the cell door slammed shut, one of the mages chuckling something about “stupid Ox-men” as they walked away. Bull’s lips pressed together.

The light was dim at the back of the cell, but up close Bull couldn’t make out any new cuts or bruises on Cullen’s face. (The old ones were beginning to turn a lovely shade of yellowish-green, however, and dark blood crusted the left side of the Commander’s face.) Cullen looked pale, but the man was Fereldan: in Bull’s opinion, he was _always_ pale. He definitely held himself like a man in pain, however: hunched over, one arm wrapped around his midsection, his body folded in on itself as though that could protect him from further harm. He allowed Solas to direct him to the ground, the slender elf lowering Cullen with an ease and gentleness that seemed at odds with his delicate appearance.

“Ah, _da’len,_ ” Solas murmured, his voice weighted with concern as he helped Cullen to sit. “Let me see your hand.”

“No, it’s …” Cullen struggled, and Bull saw that he wasn’t holding his arm against his torso to protect his guts or his ribs, but rather that he was favouring the injured limb. Cullen’s own voice was soft and thick with pain, and if he had any objections to Solas referring to him as a child, he kept them to himself. “I don’t think anything is broken.”

“ _Vashedan,_ ” Bull swore under his breath, as Solas eased Cullen’s arm away from his body to inspect the damage.

“Maker’s breath, you’re swearing in Qunlat and Solas is speaking in Elvish,” Cullen said, and there was just the faintest hint of what Dorian liked to refer to as “sass” in the Commander’s slightly breathless voice. “It must be worse than I thought.”

“ _Kost,_ ” Bull replied, the Qunlat word for “peace.” He knew Cullen spoke a little Qunlat – certainly more than any other non-Viddathari human Bull had met – courtesy of his time during the Qunari invasion of Kirkwall. Sure enough, Bull’s gentle rejoinder brought the tiniest of smiles to Cullen’s lips, and the Commander allowed his hand to be pulled into Bull’s lap for closer inspection. He let his hand rest, palm up, on Bull’s thigh.

As Cullen had said, nothing appeared to be broken, but that was hardly a comfort as it was immediately obvious that several of Cullen’s fingers on his right hand had been dislocated, and there was blood under his nails from what had likely been something sharp shoved in where the skin was tender. Bull was well-versed in interrogation techniques thanks to his Ben-Hassrath training and was certainly aware that hands were particularly useful targets: lots of little bones, lots of sensitive nerve-endings, and the potential risk to productivity if the injuries proved untreatable could lead to a devastating loss of self. That the bastards had gone for Cullen’s dominant hand made it that much worse: these injuries were meant to disable. Without proper medical care Cullen ran the risk of losing the use of his hand, and at the very least his fine dexterity would be jeopardized.

“ _Vashedan,_ ” Bull swore again. He glanced over at Solas, who was studying the exchange closely. “We need to reset these.”

“No,” Cullen said, attempting to draw his injured hand away. His face was pale but his eyes were determined as he continued, “Fix this, and they’ll only dislocate my … my fingers … again. Leave it. I can take it. You can fix me once we’re out of here.”

“The damage could be permanent, Commander,” Solas said quietly.

Cullen swallowed heavily, his adam’s apple bobbing. “I understand. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“For now,” Bull growled.

A nod, grudging. “Yes. For now.”

Cullen pulled his hand into his own lap, gingerly settling into a cross-legged position a few feet away from Bull. With the index finger of his uninjured left hand he began sketching something in the dirt of the cavern floor. It took Bull only a few seconds to realize the Commander was drawing a map, and as the sketch took on more elaborate shape Cullen began to explain what they were looking at: here, the room where he was taken for interrogation; here, where he suspected the mages were sleeping and eating; here, where he thought their weapons and armour had been stashed. The cave system was large and filled with many twists and turns, but Cullen seemed certain of what he was describing. He had a guess as to where the exit might be, based on the air flows he’d felt while being dragged from one area to another, and he was trying to get a better gauge on how many enemies they faced. Without sunlight it was difficult to determine time – Bull’s internal clock was good, but he’d been unconscious for part of their captivity and that messed with his time-sense something fierce – and thus difficult to ascertain any set schedule, but there was starting to be a rhythm to things and so sooner or later a schedule would make itself obvious.

“There’s one other thing,” Cullen said, once he’d finished with his map and explanations. He cradled his injured hand in his lap, fingers of his good hand supporting the right wrist. “Well, two things, really – one bad, one … I’m not certain of, yet.”

The Iron Bull and Solas exchanged looks. “Go on,” Solas said, nodding encouragingly.

Cullen grimaced, looking down at his hand and the misshapen fingers, all bent at odd, painful-looking angles. “This is personal, for the mages.”

“They know you?” Bull asked.

“No. Not … not personally, but they know who I am. Who I _was_.” With that one sentence – “Who I was” – Cullen encapsulated his life before the Inquisition: his service as a Templar, his time in Kirkwall and Kinloch Hold before that. There was a significant weight to the words. “I’m not the Commander of the Inquisition to these mages – or rather, that’s the least of who I am, to them.”

“You’re a Templar,” said Solas softly.

“ _Ex_ -Templar,” Cullen replied forcefully before nodding and sighing. “These mages … They’ve all suffered at the hands of the Templars. Their experiences were nothing like what First Enchanter Vivienne has spoken of. They were … They’ve been victimized. People they loved were hurt, killed … by Templars. They’ve had friends and loved ones made Tranquil, or accused of being blood mages and executed outright. One of them – the one who did this, actually” – Cullen jerked his chin towards his hand – “his sister was a mage. Some Templars took a fancy to her, told her she … she _owed_ them … for keeping her safe. When she threatened to tell what they’d done, they had her made Tranquil … and continued their abuse of her. This is _personal_ to them. It’s not about getting information. It’s about getting back at the Templars.”

“Even though you no longer number among them,” said Solas. His expression had gone grim as Cullen had outlined the situation, but it was clear from his gentle tone that he did not hold Cullen accountable for the actions of the other Templars. Bull thought, from the look on Cullen’s face, that it was just as likely the Commander _did_ blame himself, even for those Circles he hadn’t been a part of.

“Even so.”

Bull cleared his throat, drawing their attention. It wasn’t that this part wasn’t important – it was – it was just that it was simply a confirmation of what he had already suspected. There was a reason the mages kept dragging Cullen away, and it wasn’t just because he knew the intimate inner workings of the Inquisition. That much had been obvious to Bull, at least, and he didn’t need Cullen to spell it out for him now.

“And the other thing?” he asked gently. “The maybe-not-bad thing?”

“Right. Yes.” Cullen gave his head a sharp twist, easing a kink out of his neck in a way that made Bull feel jealous right down to his toes. Honey-coloured eyes met Bull’s single green one as Cullen gave him a serious look. “There was another man there this time. Human, older than the others. Not a mage, I don’t think, judging by his clothing. He stood back and watched.”

“Oh?”

Cullen nodded again. “Yes. He seemed almost … bored. As if he had better things to be doing.” He let out a sudden amused-sounding huff of breath. “Can’t say that I blamed him – I rather felt the same.”

Bull laughed, not because he thought the comment funny, but because he sensed it was the response Cullen was going for. Laugh, because laughter was better than screaming.

“He only spoke once or twice, but he had a strange accent. One I’ve heard before. In Kirkwall.” He met Bull’s gaze again. “When I spoke with the Arishok.”

“You’re saying … we’ve been captured by someone working for the Qun? That …” Bull blinked, instinctively trying to shake his head in negation, only for the chains to hold him in place. He wanted to say this wasn’t possible, that there was no reason for agents of the Qun – Ben-Hassrath, Viddathari or otherwise – to have aligned themselves with apostate mages. But he had been declared Tal-Vashoth and exiled from the Qun; he had no way of knowing _what_ had been decided, for him or for the Inquisition, in Par Vollen. It was entirely possible that this man _was_ Viddathari and had been sent to spy on the rebel mages. It was also entirely possible that Cullen hadn’t been the real target of their ambush: that the Iron Bull had been the target. Or perhaps both of them; the Ben-Hassrath never liked to serve just one end goal in their assignments, after all.

“Well,” Bull said, after a lengthy moment of silence. “Crap.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are spoilers given for Bull's personal quest. Also, while this story takes place before the end of the game and the Trespasser DLC, I do intend to change POV characters eventually and so possible spoilers might come up as the result of being inside someone's head.
> 
> Finally, while it's not yet relevant, I just want to mention that I've never actually played Dragon Age II, just Origins (no Awakening, even) and Inquisition (repeatedly). (I think DAII will run on my computer, though, so I have ... plans ... for the future. :D ) I've mostly just read entries on the wiki and fanfiction relating to DAII, primarily with the intention of making decisions in Dragon Age Keep to change my world-build. So any potential errors I make regarding Cullen's history in Kirkwall or anything relating to Hawke and companions are purely unintentional. Apologies if there's any confusion.

Bull had just managed to drift off into an uneasy sleep when he was awakened by the sounds of a struggle. He woke, flailing upwards towards the noise, his head snapping back against the stone wall as the chains pulled taut. He had not fallen so deeply under to have forgotten where he was, but instinct was instinct, and the sounds of battle – even as muffled as those sounds might have been – called on battle-hardened nerves to have him surging to danger.

“Danger,” in this case, being a relevant term: Cullen in the midst of a nightmare, his only enemies (for the moment) the ones inside his own mind.

Cullen had fallen asleep curled up in a little ball, his entire body tucked in around his damaged right hand. His sleep had been restless, not unlike Bull’s or Solas’s, but of the three of them he was the most worn out; he simply had more physical discomfort to overcome before he could successfully drift off. He had kept that discomfort to himself, however, dismissing any attempts from the other two to ease his pain or offer up much in the way of support.

Now he was twitching restlessly and breathing hard, and Bull thought he could hear an almost steady stream of “ _Maker, no, Maker, leave me, please leave me, no_ ” over and over again, the words hissed out between clenched teeth.

“Cullen, _lethallin,_ wake up,” Solas called, getting up to his knees and moving towards the other man, one hand held out in a conciliatory gesture.

Bull watched with a sense of trepidation. “Wait, you don’t wanna –”

With a startled cry Cullen suddenly surged up into a crouch, fists lashing out. Solas, acting on instinct, threw up his hand, catching Cullen’s hand square in the centre of his palm.

Cullen’s _right_ hand.

Cullen’s right hand with the dislocated fingers.

“—do that,” Bull finished lamely, as Solas grunted at the impact and Cullen fell over onto his side, his injured hand – now even more damaged – clutched to his chest.

“ _Maker’s fucking hairy arse!_ ” Cullen bellowed. Iron Bull felt his eyebrows shoot up towards the heavens at that delightful bit of blasphemy coming from the normally tame-sounding Chantry boy and had to fight the urge to burst out laughing. Neither the situation nor Cullen’s response called for that, but damned, Bull desperately wanted to know if Cullen kissed the Inquisitor with that filthy mouth. (Oh, who was Bull kidding? Lyre had a gift for profanities; she would have been delighted to hear her staunch Commander swear.)

“ _Fenedhis,_ Commander, I _am_ sorry.” Both hands raised to show he meant no ill-will, Solas scooted over to Cullen’s side, quickly taking the other man’s damaged hand between both of his own to inspect it for further injury. The elf murmured under his breath – Bull didn’t speak Elvish, but based on the tone and the vehemence involved it was safe to assume Solas continued cursing – before releasing Cullen again. “I am sorry, Commander; I ought to have known better than to try to wake you.” At Cullen’s befuddled (and slightly belligerent) expression the mage added, “You were having a nightmare.”

“Yes,” Cullen acknowledged through gritted teeth, “Thank you, I had noticed that. Maker’s breath, what did you hit me with?”

Solas shook out his hand, staring down at his own palm as if searching there for the mysteries of the universe. When he looked up at Cullen, his own expression had a hint of annoyance to it. “Strictly speaking, Commander, _you_ struck _me. I_ was merely protecting myself. Still, I did not intend to hurt you, and for that I apologize. You have a … rather impressive … right hook. Dislocations notwithstanding.”

Cullen grunted out an indeterminate response and sagged back to the ground, breathing heavily. Bull wanted to ask what the nightmare had been about, but really, did he need the details? The three of them were trapped in a cavern complex filled with angry apostate mages – many of whom had the deep-seated desire to crush the ex-Templar in their midst down into paste. And once Cullen was dead, no doubt they would decide to move onto the Iron Bull, given how well-known it was what the Qunari did to their mages. That was assuming the possible Qunari spy among their numbers didn’t decide to deal with him, first. Any of that could equate to nightmare-fuel, never mind all the shit the Commander had been through any time in the past ten or so years. The man’s history, not unlike the Bull’s own, was a mess of tragedy, disaster and near-misses.

“You all right?” Bull asked. He once again cursed the damned chains wrapped around his horns; he wanted to go to Cullen’s side, to check his hand over for himself and reassure himself that despite evidence to the contrary, the man wasn’t completely damaged. But he couldn’t move away from the cavern wall and Cullen wasn’t moving any closer to him, so all Bull could do was sit and stare and hurt on his friend’s behalf.

“I’ve had worse,” Cullen replied, and wasn’t _that_ the fucking truth? The Iron Bull may not have known all the nitty-gritty details of Cullen’s experiences in the Ferelden Circle or in Kirkwall (the Ben-Hassrath reports on Kirkwall had been more complete, given the Qunari occupation, but it had been difficult to get much insight on the goings-on inside the Gallows), but he knew enough. And since Lyre and Cullen had started getting closer, he’d had a few of those blank spaces filled in: the Inquisitor had come to Bull for advice on how to deal with some of the Commander’s many issues and hang-ups, and necessity had demanded that she provide him with a few details in order to receive the best support.

Even so, “ _he has nightmares about demons_ ” was not the same as knowing what, exactly, had caused the scar on his upper lip, or why he’d once flinched like he’d been struck when Vivienne cast an unexpected protective barrier spell around him in the midst of battle. Lyre wanted Bull’s advice, but not at the expense of revealing Cullen’s secrets. Bull could respect that.

Lucky for Lyre – and Cullen – that they had started their relationship after Bull had been declared Tal-Vashoth. As Hissrad, Bull would not have hesitated to leverage Lyre’s desire for advice to enable himself to gain intel on the Commander of the Inquisition. His handlers in Par Vollen had wanted Bull to get close to the Inquisitor and her advisors; short of sleeping with her – which, frankly, Bull had tried to do, right up until the moment he realized how very close Lyre and Cullen were getting – being the shoulder she cried on when her lover was fighting demons in his sleep was the best he could do. It scared Bull sometimes, to think about what he might have done, had the Inquisitor made a different choice on the Storm Coast and urged him to save the Qunari dreadnaught instead of his beloved Chargers. He didn’t think he would have liked the man he would become. Even though he still woke in a cold sweat most nights, worrying about the infamous Tal-Vashoth bloodthirst and mania, he knew he had made the right call. And Lyre, bless her soft, tender heart, had been the one to guide him to it. She had known even then that choosing the Chargers over the dreadnaught – over an alliance with the Qun – was the wrong choice, politically and strategically, but it was the right choice for _them._ For Bull, for her, and for the Inquisition.

Soft-hearted, kind-hearted, tender-hearted: those words were not synonymous with weak. No matter what Hissrad had been taught.

“It’s just like old times,” Cullen added, after a moment’s consideration. He patted the stony floor with his good hand, an unreadable expression on his face as he glanced toward the barred exit. Then, stroking the stone with the very tips of his fingers, he murmured, so softly Bull knew he wasn’t meant to overhear, “ _Not Kinloch. Not. Kinloch._ ”

Behind the Commander’s bent back, Solas met Bull’s eyes. The worry there was evident. Bull didn’t know how close Solas and Cullen were – not very, he suspected, given their drastically divergent backgrounds and outlooks – but it was impossible to be a member of Lyre’s Inner Circle without spending copious amounts of time with the rest of the gang. He knew Cullen and Solas played chess together; there were a handful of them, Bull included, who took turns making the most of the sunny herb garden outside the War Room at Skyhold, where a stone chess board was set up in the spot best determined to receive the most sunlight throughout the day. He suspected, also, that Cullen spoke to Solas in an attempt to learn more about mages and about Elven culture, both topics that the apostate was undeniably expert in – and both topics that intersected quite intimately with Lyre Lavellan. If Lyre was coming to Bull about sex and mental health advice for Cullen (and boy, his old Tama would have been tickled pink to learn that), Cullen was going to Solas for advice on Lyre. In a way it was kind of adorable.

Whatever the meaning behind Cullen’s whispers and motions, the self-soothing exercises seemed to work. The Commander settled with his back to the stone, sitting a few feet away from where Bull was chained, stretching his long legs out in front of him. From where he sat Bull could only see the other man’s profile, but Cullen’s jaw was set resolutely and his broad shoulders were square. Bull suspected the former Templar was calling up aspects of his old training in order to get through this: focusing exercises, meditation, silent prayer. Bull was familiar with the concept; the Qun had similar methods.

Solas pushed up off the stone and took a few steps around their cramped cell, his feet making soft scuffling sounds on the cavern floor. Like Cullen (and unlike Bull) Solas had been permitted to keep his footwear; unlike Cullen, he kept his feet covered not by durable leather boots, but rather by soft-looking cloth wraps that twined around his soles and left his toes and heels exposed. Bull had known enough elves to know that they seemed to prefer going about with bare feet – something that, at the moment, he struggled to wrap his head around, given that he would _literally kill_ to get his own damned boots back – but he imagined the man’s feet must feel and look like leather.

After a few steps – pacing the confines of their cell – Solas came and settled down in front of and slightly between Cullen and the Iron Bull, putting his back to the iron bars that blocked their passage. He sat cross-legged, hands resting upturned on his knees. He turned a calm, querying gaze on Cullen.

“Judging by the information you’ve already gleaned, I take it the apostates are eager to talk?” he asked. In the dim light of the cell Bull could make out the runes that kept the mage-collar active: they were dark, and rather gave the impression of absorbing the light around them, keeping Solas’s neck and upper body swathed in shadow. The Iron Bull thought he might be able to rip the collar loose, given sufficient time and effort, but there was no way to do it subtly – it would be quite noticeably ruined. There was no obvious way to remove the collar otherwise, no lock to pick, no seam to tear. Some mage-collars required a magical key to deactivate them, but he had no way of knowing if this was one such.

“About certain topics, yes,” Cullen acknowledged, tone sour. “The abuses they’ve suffered at Templar hands, specific Templars who’ve wronged them, the punishments they’d like to inflict” – if Bull hadn’t been paying close attention out of the corner of his eye, he would have missed the tiny shudder Cullen gave at that; unsurprising, given that Cullen was the only Templar they had available to punish. “They’re not exactly quick to fill me in on their devious plans, if that’s what you’re getting at?”

Solas chuckled softly, conceding the point with a slow nod. “Helpful as that might be, no, I rather suspected as much.” He hesitated a moment before apparently deciding to plough ahead with his indelicate question: “Are you given the opportunity to speak, or do our captors keep you gagged during their … sessions?”

“What, and miss out on the chance to hear me scream or beg for mercy?” Cullen snorted in disgust. “No, I’m not gagged. Much good as it does them.” He gazed down at his injured hand, cradled palm-up in his lap, and added under his breath, “This is _not_ Kinloch Hold.”

“It is not,” Solas agreed calmly, nodding again. “Although I suspect humans are just as gifted at coming up with methods of torture as the demons were.”

Cullen flinched, letting out a shuddering sigh as he let the back of his head thump dully against the stone cavern wall. “Maker’s breath, she _told_ you?”

“Only the broad strokes,” Solas assured him. “The Inquisitor was looking for ways to ease your slumber and alleviate some of your nightmares. But,” he hesitated again, this time as if trying to determine whether or not to share what he knew, “in truth I was already aware of some of what had befallen you when the Ferelden Circle fell. I have visited Kinloch Hold in the Fade. The memories it holds are … not pleasant.”

“No,” Cullen said softly, “I would imagine not. Maker knows, _my_ memories aren’t.”

Before Solas could pursue his line of questioning the three of them heard the sound of booted feet in the passage outside their cell, and Cullen immediately pushed himself to a standing position as Solas shifted around so as to put his back to the wall. This time, three men stood outside their cell, two familiar in their tattered mage robes, the third clad in leathers and standing slightly apart from his fellows. The Iron Bull didn’t need to see Cullen’s subtle twitch to know that this third man was the one he had mentioned before, the one whose accent marked him as a potential Viddathari spy.

The Viddathari – if that’s what he was – was a tall man, lean and athletic-looking, with the darker skin tones common to the Rivaini, which only served to heighten Bull’s suspicions as to the man’s true affiliation. The Qunari had a settlement in Rivain and the two governments exchanged peaceful emissaries; it was not uncommon for Rivaini humans to convert to the Qun. With the cell door opened, the two other men stepped over to Cullen, once again taking him by the arms, while the third man moved over to Solas, a leather flask held loosely in one hand.

“Drink up, elf,” the new man said, and Bull thought he could detect the faint accent Cullen had mentioned earlier. He jerked his chin in Cullen’s direction, adding offhandedly, “Or things will go worse for your friend, there.”

“Don’t worry about m- _oof!_ ” Cullen’s protests were cut off by a sharp elbow to the ribs, hard enough to have him doubling over and gasping for breath. The Iron Bull suspected the mage had struck Cullen somewhere already bruised and aching; he was keenly aware of the Commander’s tolerance for pain, and there was no way that blow would be enough to cause a response from the naturally stoic Commander unless it was striking something already injured.

Without any protest, Solas accepted the flask from the Rivaini and drank down its contents in a few quick, deep swallows, grimacing at the bitter taste of what was most likely more magebane. He shoved the flask back into the man’s hands and wiped at his mouth, his movements already going sluggish as the poison took effect.

The Iron Bull caught the new man’s gaze, smiling his biggest, meanest shit-eating grin. Speaking Qunlat in a voice filled with cheerful malice, he promised, “ _I am going to kill you. I am going to kill you and I’m going to fuck your corpse, and I am going to laugh while I am doing it._ ”

The man didn’t even blink, his face remaining perfectly expressionless. It meant nothing: if he was truly Ben-Hassrath he would know better than to give away his understanding of Qunlat, and if he wasn’t, he might not understand a word Bull had said. The tone alone, combined with that menacing smile, would have been enough to indicate Bull’s malignancy.

_Eh, worth a try,_ Bull thought, mentally shrugging.

“Come along, _Commander,_ ” one of the mages said, tugging impatiently at Cullen’s arm even though he hadn’t been resisting them. The way he spoke, the man made the word ‘Commander’ sound like an insult, like he equated Cullen with dog shit or something equally odious.

The apostates took Cullen away again. The new man locked the cell behind him, giving Bull a long, assessing glance as he did so.

“ _Itwa-ost, bas,_ ” the man said before turning away.

Bull let out a small hum of acknowledgement, suspicions confirmed. “ _Asit tal-eb, hissrad._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> _Lethallin_ Elvish, "friend" (There seems to be some discrepancy between Lethallin/Lethallan/Lethallen for male/female/gender neutral. I'm going with the Wiki that says "lethallin" is the masculine, even though Solas refers to the female Inquisitor as _lethallin_ in conversation.)
> 
> _Fenedhis_ Elvish, undefined, a common curse
> 
> _Itwa-ost, bas_ Qunlat, "You all fall, thing"
> 
> _Asit tal-eb, hissrad_ Qunlat, "It is to be, liar" (While Iron Bull's name under the Qun, Hissrad, meant "keeper of illusions," I'm using the word "hissrad" here for its more explicit meaning of "liar")


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crumpet succumbs to the "huddling for warmth" trope, because that's my life now, I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: torture (non-graphic but discussed and described in-character)

There was more than just magebane in the flask their captors kept forcing on Solas. The Iron Bull, familiar with the variety of drugs and toxins one could use on another – including their creation and alternate applications, for the imaginative or desperate – was certainly well-versed in the effects of magebane. The Qunari used it both on enemy mages as well as on their own Saarebas, under controlled settings (most often training exercises). Even when one had an adverse reaction to it, the worst that happened was that _more_ mana was drained from them. Solas wasn’t just having his mana drained, he was being left groggy and weak as a day-old nug. He said, when asked about it, that the water tasted “green.” Bull didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but the end result was that when Cullen was returned to them sometime later, Solas was huddled on the cavern floor using the Iron Bull’s outstretched calf as a pillow, utterly unable to rouse himself enough to respond to the sound of the lock being turned in the iron-barred door.

The cell door was thrown open and Cullen hauled back inside, weight supported between two of the mages. The Rivaini – almost certainly a Qunari spy – was nowhere to be seen. One of the mages moved away, Cullen’s arm falling free from around the man’s neck, and then the other man pushed him forward, releasing him with a slight shove. Cullen went sprawling, his knees folding under him, only barely bringing his hands up in time to catch himself before he could smack his face on the ground.

Solas scarcely even flinched, even when Bull cried out “Cullen!” and the Commander himself let out a pained groan as his weight fell heavily upon his injured hand. One of the guards chuckled darkly and then the cell door was slammed shut again, the lock set, and the three of them were left alone once more.

Cullen was wet. Not just wet: _soaked,_ blond curls dripping, linen shirt practically adhered to his well-muscled torso, even his trousers damp down to his knees. He looked half-drowned. As Bull watched, Cullen shifted painfully over onto his side, hacking and barking like an old man with the winter-cough.

“Shit, Commander, you all right?” Bull asked, gently nudging Solas to wakefulness. The elf shuddered, his long ears twitching, and slowly sat up. Bull was keenly aware of just how much effort that seemed to take, far removed from Solas’s usual grace.

Still coughing – a wet, rasping noise that sounded like it had to hurt – Cullen pushed himself to a semi-sitting position, hunched over with one hand pressed to his chest. He nodded in response to Bull’s question, a reply belied by how much he struggled to find enough breath to speak.

“—didn’t – they didn’t hurt me,” he managed to gasp out before coughing up what Bull desperately hoped was just water and spitting it out onto the cavern floor. Finally the coughing subsided for a moment, and Cullen drew in a series of long, deep breaths, gasping in air as though he’d been drowning. The Iron Bull could see that the other man was shuddering, shivering, no doubt a combination of adrenaline and the fact that their cavern cell was not particularly warm. His wet clothing did him no favours here.

“What happened?” Bull asked, at the same time as Solas asked, “Commander, what did they do to you?”

Cullen sat up fully, wrapping his arms around himself and hugging tight. Bull couldn’t tell if it was an attempt to ward off the cold or to provide himself comfort. The man’s honey-brown eyes, when he finally lifted them enough to meet Bull’s gaze, were shadowed and set in a too-pale face, the beating he’d taken earlier leaving yellowish-green bruises all over his skin. His perpetual five o’clock shadow was starting to grow back in earnest, dark blond stubble covering his cheeks and jawline, all save for the spot where the scar neatly bisected his upper lip. He was a far sight from the usual pristine and put-together Commander, that was for certain, and under different circumstances the bruises and stubble might have gifted him a roguish, rakish air were it not for the haunted look on his face and the dark hollows of his eyes.

“They had a … a cloth,” he said, in between damp coughs. He twirled the fingers of his good hand towards his face, gesturing broadly. His hand was shaking. “They put it … over my face … and then – and then … water … They poured … They poured water over me, over my … my _face_ … It … I …” Another shuddering breath, broad shoulders heaving. “They didn’t _hurt_ me! Andraste preserve me, I don’t understand why I should be so … so upset and unmanned by this!”

Once again Bull found himself cursing the chains that held him in place, as he rather urgently wanted to go over to the Commander and give the man a hug. Cullen wasn’t the most physically demonstrative person, but Bull knew from observing him with Lyre that he was almost desperately touch-starved. He suspected the former Templar hadn’t experienced a lot of positive physical contact in his life – certainly not in the past ten years or so, at least, and maybe not since he’d left his home in Honnleath at the tender age of thirteen. Every time Lyre touched him, even if it was just the gentlest brush of her hand on his cheek, or a glancing bump of her hip against his, Cullen turned towards her like a flower turning towards the sun – like he needed her and that contact with her to thrive, to _live_. It was one of the things that had kept Bull from pursuing the woman himself, even when landing a spot in her bed would’ve helped him better serve the Qun. He wasn’t so much of an asshole that he could take something like that away from someone who clearly needed it _so fucking much._ Lyre Lavellan was an incredibly tactile person, constantly hugging and petting and brushing up against people, and she did it with such a casual grace that it seemed natural rather than forced, such that Bull suspected he was the only one who noticed her making more of an effort towards her Commander. The man _needed_ it, and Lyre was very good at providing. Had Lyre been born Qunari rather than elf, she would have made an excellent Tamassran.

Solas did not suffer from the restriction of being bound in chains, and instead had to fight against the lassitude in his drugged body in order to crawl over to where Cullen huddled. He didn’t take the Commander into his arms the way that Bull longed to do, but he did reach out to clasp the man’s shoulder, strong fingers squeezing the smooth curve of muscle.

“It is not unmanly to be upset to have been tortured, Commander,” the elf said softly, in the gentlest tone of voice the Iron Bull had ever heard him use. There was compassion written clearly upon his face – compassion, and not a drop of pity. The elf was far too perceptive: Commander Cullen would not have accepted pity.

“But they didn’t hurt me!” Cullen protested again, as if he couldn’t fathom it, that a torture that had left his body undamaged – more or less; Bull had some concerns on _that_ matter – should be so unnerving.

Bull cleared his throat, catching their attention before Cullen could spiral downwards, as he so clearly seemed destined to do. Elf and human turned towards him, Solas’s eyes still cloudy from the drugged water, Cullen’s hair dripping wet tendrils down his forehead and cheeks.

“It’s called water-boarding,” Bull said, meeting Cullen’s gaze. “What they did to you, I mean – at least from what you’re describing. Doesn’t leave a mark, but make no mistake, kid, it’s a torture technique. My people – ah,” he corrected, coughing delicately, still feeling the sting of his exile, “the Ben-Hassrath, I mean, we’ve ... _they’ve_ been known to use it when interrogating suspects. Feels like you’re drowning, doesn’t it?”

“I … yes.” Cullen gave a full-body shudder, nodding. “You’ve had it done to you, then?”

“Yeah … kinda.” Bull shrugged one massive shoulder, trying to find a way to explain that his experience of water-boarding had been under extremely controlled circumstances: training exercises, meant to instruct him in the technique as well as to prepare him for undergoing it. Hardly the same as what Cullen had been through; the Iron Bull – Hissrad, then – had known himself to be safe, that the instructors would stop before things went too far. It was still pretty fucking miserable, but nowhere in the vicinity of experiencing it for real out in the field, by men who likely had no fucking clue what they were doing or how far to go. Unless …

“It was the new guy, wasn’t it?” Bull asked, picturing the Rivaini in his mind, finding it all too easy to imagine the man holding Cullen down, putting the cloth in place, the water pouring down over Cullen’s face.

“Yes.” Another nod, followed by some deep, bone-wracking coughs. “They had some … questions … for me, this time.”

“What sort of questions?” Solas asked. He had removed his hand from Cullen’s shoulder only to settle it on the Commander’s back, patting him when the coughing grew too harsh. Without his usual armour and that fancy fur-trimmed cloak Dorian liked to make fun of Cullen seemed much smaller, his profile somehow diminished. Not helpless – even hunched over, coughing and fearful, the Commander of the Inquisition was far from helpless, would never seem helpless. But smaller, definitely.

“He was all over the place,” Cullen replied. “Asking who _was_ really in charge – from his inference, it seems like Leliana or I are believed to be the true ringleaders, and Lyre is just a … just a figurehead.”

Bull could easily imagine that. Nobody expected a feral little elf girl – and a mage, no less! – to be the woman in charge of the Inquisition. Nobody expected elves to be in charge of _anything._ At the same time, however, he could just as easily surmise that this was the Viddathari’s method of getting under Cullen’s skin: implying that his special lady-friend was somehow less than he believed her to be, that she was just a puppet, played about on Cullen’s or Sister Nightingale’s strings. Bull was growing more and more convinced that this man really was a spy for the Qun. A few snarled words of Qunlat were damning enough, but the water-boarding – a technique he had only ever witnessed perpetrated by his own (former) side – sold it for him.

“What else?” Bull asked.

Cullen started to answer before his shudders turned into full-on shivering, his teeth chattering hard enough to rattle his skull. Solas and Bull exchanged another worried look, and before Cullen could open his mouth to respond to Bull’s question, Solas was plucking delicate fingers at the hem of Cullen’s shirt.

“We need to get you out of this,” the elf said, even as he wrinkled his nose at the thought. Cullen goggled up at him in obvious confusion, and Solas heaved a thoroughly put-upon sigh, going so far as to roll his eyes. “You’re soaked, Commander, and this wet clothing does you little good. Come, take your shirt off, we’ll set it aside and … _hmm._ ”

“ _What?_ ” Cullen growled, a faint note of suspicion overriding his fear.

“I’m thinking,” Solas replied, continuing in his attempt to peel Cullen out of his wet shirt. “I am trying to come up with some way to get you warm, given we lack fire, dry clothing and hot beverages. I have read enough of that trash Varric Tethras pretends is literature to know what _he_ would suggest, were he in our present circumstances, but I am not so desperate as to resort to his methods.”

“Aw, no hot elf-on-Commander action?” Bull teased, pretending to sound disappointed. In truth, under different circumstances – not the least of which would likely involve an entire shift in sexual orientation for the elf, and probably the human, too, if Bull was any judge – he would normally find the idea intriguing, but trapped in a cold, drafty cell under the threat of death and dismemberment wasn’t doing much for his libido. Still, it never hurt his reputation to let Cullen and Solas think otherwise. They were both attractive men, bruises and drug-glazed eyes notwithstanding, and Bull was nothing if not open-minded where such things were concerned.

“Certainly not,” Solas said sharply, giving the Qunari a glare before turning a faintly apologetic look on Cullen. “I have no doubt that you are considered an attractive man, among your race –”

“Among my _race_?” Cullen sputtered. A delightful red flush was beginning to make its way up the back of Cullen’s neck and over his cheeks. The man was ridiculously easy to discomfit, blushing like an Andrastian virgin on her wedding night over the smallest bit of sexual innuendo or flirting. Bull found it hilarious how quickly the Commander’s indignation switched, first from thinking Solas was propositioning him, then to being offended that he was _not_.

“—but I’ve little interest in staking a claim on the Inquisitor’s lover,” Solas finished, to more embarrassed sputtering and hot-faced blushes from Cullen. He finally succeeded in drawing the shirt over Cullen’s head before – mindful of Cullen’s injuries – carefully peeling the wet fabric away from his arms. Unsurprisingly, the Commander’s torso was a mass of cuts and bruises overlaying much older scars. A set of particularly nasty-looking bruises spread across Cullen’s ribs, purple-black in the dim light of the cell; Bull thought he could almost make out the distinct impression of hobnailed boots imprinted on Cullen’s side.

Solas made no comment, but Bull didn’t miss the way his lips pressed together in a firm line. After a moment’s thought the elf nodded as if coming to a decision, then quickly stripped out of his own – much drier – shirt. Solas’s shirt was far too small for the Commander to wear properly, but he draped it over the other man’s shoulders like a small linen cape, settling it carefully so as to ensure it covered as much skin as possible. He then stood and carried Cullen’s shirt over to where a small section of rock cut away from the cavern wall, arranging the wet fabric in a flat, shapeless mass where it could hopefully dry out somewhat.

“You’ll be cold,” Cullen protested. His teeth were still chattering; Bull thought his lips might be turning blue.

“I will be fine,” Solas assured him.

“C’mere,” Bull said, throwing open his arms as if looking for a hug. Cullen eyed him warily, his suspicious expression made somewhat ludicrous by the fact that he was shivering hard enough to crack a tooth. Bull grinned and made his pectoral muscles jump, twitching one, then the other in sequence, and then patted the ground in front of him. “Sit down.”

“I’m wet.” Cullen’s protests were growing weaker as his shivering increased, interrupted by another round of harsh coughing. “You’ll be cold.”

“Eh, I don’t feel it like you humans do,” Bull argued, shrugging and patting the ground again. Cullen was Ferelden; his cold tolerance was higher than, say, Dorian’s – the Tevinter mage was a hothouse orchid who complained nonstop about the cold (and the damp and the smell of dog-shit that tended to permeate the air in southern Thedas and – _shit,_ Bull missed that damned ‘Vint). Even so, half-drowned and in damp trousers, the man was going to freeze if they didn’t do something. “Here, sit down with your back to my chest. If Solas sits in front of you, we can all huddle for warmth.” He managed, through sheer force of will, to resist the urge to waggle his eyebrows suggestively.

“You’ll keep your hands to yourself?”

Bull fought not to laugh, knowing Cullen wouldn’t take it well, that he would take it the wrong way. The Commander was a good-looking man and no mistake, but the Iron Bull didn’t go where he wasn’t wanted, and it was pretty clear that Cullen wasn’t interested. Besides that, he didn’t really go in for the whole “drowned rat” look Cullen was currently sporting, and the evidence of repeated beatings didn’t really do much for him, either. The muscles and scars were damned sexy, though.

“I’ll try to restrain my baser impulses,” Bull said, heavy on the sarcasm. Solas rolled his eyes again.

With obvious reluctance Cullen made his way towards Bull, shuffling awkwardly into a sitting position in front of him. He sat hunched over, exposing the lean muscled lines of his back – pale skin almost as heavily scarred as Bull’s own greyer flesh – his elbows resting on his knees. Bull scooted forward as much as the chains would let him to close the distance between them, unable to ignore the coldness radiating from the other man, the way gooseflesh rippled over his skin, how he continued to shiver and shudder. After a moment’s consideration Bull wrapped his arms around Cullen, feeling the other man stiffen in his embrace.

“Bull …”

“Not gonna hurt you,” Bull replied, even as he realized that that was _exactly_ what Cullen was concerned about. Not that Bull would take advantage – because whatever else the Commander might think of him, Cullen knew how seriously Bull took consent and that he wouldn’t try to push Cullen’s boundaries without some indication of Cullen’s interest – but that Bull would _hurt_ him. Because, in Cullen’s experience, people did not touch him out of kindness or compassion. They touched him to hurt.

_Damn, kid,_ Bull thought, resisting the urge to squeeze the Commander into a great big bear hug. (A _bull_ hug, if you will. He mentally giggled at the word-play.) Had there been no friendly faces in Kirkwall? Had Cullen gone his entire adult life being smacked around and neglected? Bull felt a new determination to make sure the man got back home to Skyhold, back home to his pretty little elven Inquisitor who would no doubt smother the man in hugs and kisses the moment she saw him again. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest thing in the world, their relationship – not if Cullen was as damaged as Bull was beginning to suspect he was – but damn, he deserved some softness and kindness in his life. He made a mental note to start showing the Commander some more tactile affection, the way he did with the Chargers: a shoulder pat here, a slap on the back there. That kind of physical affection came naturally to the Bull; he couldn’t imagine living life without it. It boggled his mind that Cullen apparently _had._

“You said you’d keep your hands to yourself,” Cullen said, although he didn’t try to pull away.

“It’s just a hug, kid,” Bull replied. “Your virtue is safe with me.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen grumbled. Bull laughed.

Bull and Cullen sat quietly for a few minutes before Solas came and joined them, sitting cross-legged in front of Cullen. Stripped of his shirt – which, given the vast size difference between the slim elf and the broad-shouldered, muscular human, barely served to cover Cullen’s upper back and shoulders – the elf was pale, almost as pale as the Commander, with a defined musculature that spoke of hard work and harder living. Solas sat stiffly for a moment, then leaned back until he was pressing Cullen against Bull’s chest, forcing them closer.

“ _Fenedhis lasa,_ you’re freezing,” the elf muttered, hissing as his bare skin came into contact with Cullen’s. Bull stretched his arms out further to draw Solas into his embrace, pretending he didn’t hear the quiet hum of acceptance the other man made as Bull’s warmer skin touched his.

After a moment Solas let out a quiet chuckle. “We must never speak of this to Lyre. Or Dorian.”

“Nah, Dorian would love this,” Bull argued. “The three of us together, half-naked and huddling for warmth? He’d eat that shit up.”

“Lyre would be delighted,” Cullen admitted. His voice was softer, although it still held the rasp from his earlier coughing. He sounded sleepy and surprisingly relaxed. “It’s Varric we need to avoid.”

“Yes,” Solas agreed, “lest we become fodder for the next chapter of his tripe.”

Cullen trembled, and this time Bull didn’t think it was from the cold. “He’s used my likeness enough, I think, in his stories about Kirkwall. I shudder to think what tales he intends to tell of the Inquisition.”

“Only good things,” Bull said, voice a quiet rumble. He settled himself more comfortably, feeling Cullen easing against him, the other man beginning to go lax and still.

“Bull? Solas?” Cullen’s voice was barely audible, a thing more felt than heard. “Thank you.”

“Any time, kid,” Bull replied, surprised to find that he meant it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen, Bull and Solas are given a brief reprieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a supremely shitty day so I wanted to get this chapter out there before my bad mood makes me overthink it. *grumble grumble grumble* It's pretty much just filler.
> 
> I do keep intending to switch POV characters, but the Iron Bull just makes for such a great narrator that I end up sticking with him. *shrugs* At some point we'll hear from Solas and Cullen.

It seemed that the three of them were left alone for a long time following Cullen’s water-boarding. Lacking any means of effectively gauging the passage of time, to the Iron Bull it felt like many hours went by without any interruptions from their captors – possibly even an entire day, although he couldn’t know for certain. On the one hand this was a good thing, because it meant that Solas was not re-dosed with magebane, and it gave the three of them time to rest and discuss their options and make plans (and, more importantly to Bull’s way of thinking, it gave both the Commander and the elf time to recover). On the other hand, being left alone also meant going without food or water, because the mages who regularly came to replenish their stagnant water-flasks and bowls of mushy, pasty gruel also did not make an appearance.

Bull could go a long time without food, water or rest; he knew this, because he had trained for it and had suffered deprivation before. Solas, likewise, was in good enough health that a day or so of going without wouldn’t harm him, although the magebane left his mouth dry and sticky. Cullen, however, had already gone three rounds of torture, and Bull knew from personal experience that that sort of thing made a man hungry and thirsty. _Especially_ thirsty. And, while it was generally regarded as an open secret and therefore not something the three of them had discussed, there was also the matter of Cullen’s lyrium withdrawal to think about. He’d gone a long time without lyrium and, so far as Bull could tell, had passed through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms already, but the added deprivation of his current situation certainly would not be helping his recovery. The Commander needed to make up for the blood he’d lost and the wounds he’d suffered, on top of his body’s lengthy recovery from prolonged lyrium addiction, and Bull worried that he wouldn’t last long if their captors continued to neglect them.

Another point of concern - for the Iron Bull, at least - was the physical stress of being kept in the same position for such a long period of time. As a young _imekari_ and trainee Bull had been able to go long hours holding one pose or another, but that was no longer the case: Bull was no longer a child (far from it, on the “unfortunate side of forty,” as Dorian would say), and his body had taken a substantial amount of damage over the years and _man,_ he could fucking _feel_ it. His entire left leg throbbed in time to his heartbeats and although he tried shifting around as much as was possible, the chains that wrapped around his horns didn’t have a lot of give in them and he was very limited in his movements. The most he could do was to stretch his legs out or bend them at the knee; at this point, he wasn’t able to sit cross-legged, and he was starting to lose the ability to bend his left leg. He was worried that he would find himself completely unable to move even without the chains holding him in place, and of a certainty even if he _could_ move it wouldn’t be with any speed or grace. Without his ankle-brace his mobility would be even _more_ reduced. And to top it all off, his Maker-damned ass was _killing_ him. If he came out of this ordeal with fucking hemorrhoids Stitches was never going to stop ragging on him.

The Iron Bull kept his worries and complaints to himself, however. No doubt both Solas and the Commander were fully aware of the straits they were in, and there was very little they could do to resolve the situation for the time being. Instead, they focused on what they _could_ do: resting themselves up as much as possible, doing what they could to patch up Cullen’s wounds (not to mention tending to the more minor injuries Bull and Solas had received during their capture) with the extremely limited supplies available to them, and assessing the information they had at hand.

Their three-man-huddle had given Bull the opportunity to get a closer look at the Saarebas collar fastened around Solas’s throat. The elf was uncomfortable under Bull’s close scrutiny, but he tolerated the examination well, permitting Bull to maneuver the collar around as much as the snug fit would allow. Bull and Cullen examined it together, combining their knowledge of such things – Bull from his training, when he’d been given an overview of the work the Arvaarad did with their Qunari mages, and Cullen from his time as a Templar (particularly working in the Gallows during the Qunari invasion) – to get a better idea of how the collar functioned. Upon closer inspection, Bull was positive he could rip the collar off with relatively little risk to Solas. It would be easier with Cullen’s additional strength, but Cullen would require the use of both hands – and in order to regain the use of his right hand, he needed Solas to utilize Spirit and Creation magics to heal him, which would be impossible so long as the collar remained in place. The other factor to be considered was how obvious it would be. Once the collar was damaged, that was it: their captors would be certain to notice it and respond accordingly. The three of them would need to bide their time until they could safely – or as safely as was possible, under the circumstances – remove it.

Still, it was one small glimmer of hope in an otherwise dark situation. Bull had worried that the collar might require some kind of magical “key” to deactivate it, or that there might be some kind of warding or other spell-triggers set into it to discourage tampering. While Cullen was no longer a Templar and had very limited access to the magic-damping abilities of the Order, he was still able to determine that the only thing magical about the Saarebas collar was the runes set into the stiff leather; with closer examination and a lot of hemming and hawing, he concluded that the runes’ sole purpose was to suppress the mage’s connection to the Fade and, through that, access to their magic. So far as Cullen could tell there were no nasty traps set into the collar. He refused to say it with complete conviction, but Cullen was reasonably confident that the collar could simply be torn away with no ill effects.

The Iron Bull had never been a “glass half full” kind of person, but he would take whatever good news he could get.

Cullen had redonned his shirt after returning Solas’s to the elf with a softly-murmured “Thank you” that Solas had, of course, waved off. The fabric was stiff with blood and saltwater and, in Bull’s opinion, looked pretty damned uncomfortable, but it was clear the Commander felt better for having it on. (Bull would never understand the human fascination with covering themselves up. Granted, they didn’t have any horns for their shirts to get snagged on, and Ferelden was considerably colder than the northern climates Bull had grown up in, but still, why hide all that upper-body work you’ve done? It didn’t make _sense_.) The Commander had also managed to catch some sleep while nestled snugly between Bull and Solas, and while that sleep had been restless, uncomfortable and nightmare-filled (if the occasional groan and protests of _“Maker, please, no, don’t”_ were any indication), it had helped to ease some of the dark shadows under Cullen’s eyes. Bull found it interesting that the Commander’s nightmares didn’t seem to involve any of the new horrors he’d most recently experienced, but since Cullen refused to talk about it there wasn’t any real way for Bull to probe deeper, curious and concerned though he was.

The last time he had been taken away, Cullen had been brought to a new location within the cavern complex, and he added this to the map he had drawn earlier (which necessitated re-drawing the entire map, as they had erased it before their captors could see what they were up to). Bull found himself marveling at the Commander’s keen memory and eye for details: he had known the man to be intelligent and an excellent strategist, but he hadn’t realized the depth of his brilliance. While Cullen may not have had the memory-training that Bull had received as Ben-Hassrath, it was clear that the Templar Order had not lagged far behind in that respect. It made sense, though: Cullen, like the Iron Bull and Solas, was capable of playing out entire chess games inside his head, without the use of a board, and he had demonstrated similar feats of memory and concentration in the past. He planned entire battles; he was the one who set the course of the Siege of Adamant, not to mention the dozens of smaller skirmishes before and after that great fight. He may not have had Leliana’s skill at spycraft, or Josephine’s talents as a diplomat, but Cullen was obviously well-suited for the role of the Inquisition’s Commander.

They took turns napping – if lying sprawled on the cold stone ground (or in the Bull’s case, leaning while awkwardly and uncomfortably chained against the wall) could be said to be at all conducive to napping. By unspoken accord Solas and Bull let Cullen sleep as long as possible before waking him for his guard shift; Cullen was too smart to have failed to notice this, but he was likewise too hurt and exhausted to argue the matter. At one point Bull awoke on his own – coming up from a nightmare about Seheron, of all things – to discover Cullen sitting beside him, humming quietly. Solas, likewise, sat up and stared at the Commander, an expression of surprised amusement on his smooth, pale face.

“Pretty,” Bull mused. “Don’t recognize the song, though.”

“Oh.” Cullen’s cheeks immediately flushed, the way they did any time someone paid him a compliment not related to his skills as a fighter or strategist. “It’s –”

“Elven,” Solas interrupted, shaking his head and smiling faintly.

“Ah. Yes.” Cullen nodded, ducking his chin to hide his embarrassment. He refused to meet either man’s eyes. “The Inquisitor, she … ah … She sings to me, sometimes, when I’m … having trouble sleeping. I’m afraid I don’t know the words, but …” He gave a helpless shrug and let the explanation peter off.

“It is a lullaby,” Solas informed him. He was still smiling, although there was something vaguely patronizing about it, as though Cullen was a tame mabari who had just performed an interesting trick for the first time. “One of the older ones, utilizing a more archaic variant of the Elven language. It is a bit … macabre, if you will: a young mother begging her child to sleep, lest Fen’Harel – the Dread Wolf or Trickster God, in the Elven pantheon – come to take him away for misbehaving. The song is meant to soothe the troublesome child to sleep before this can happen.” For some reason Solas seemed to find this particularly amusing.

“It’s _pretty,_ ” Bull said insistently, eyeing the elf.

“Yes,” Solas agreed, amicably enough. “It is, that.”

“Ah. Well.” Cullen cleared his throat, sounding uncomfortable, and gave another small shrug in Bull’s direction. “You seemed to be a bit restless, so I thought perhaps that it might … help.”

“It did,” Bull replied, giving the Commander a warm (if somewhat excessively toothy) smile before glaring at Solas again. “Thanks. You’ve got a good singing voice.”

Cullen’s cheeks went redder still. “I … ah … Thank you. I used to sing in the Chantry choir, but … well, obviously it’s been a while. I don’t have much time for it now.”

Bull couldn’t resist. “Of _course_ you were a literal choir-boy, Chantry-boy.”

“Well, in fairness, it was either sing in the choir or sit in the pews and behave myself.” Cullen let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, a welcome sound that was desperately at odds with their circumstances. “I was rather a restless child. Sitting still for an entire sermon seemed nigh on impossible. At least if you were in the choir you got to stand up and sort of sway to the music a bit.”

Bull burst out laughing, and even Solas let out a few quiet chuckles, stormy eyes dancing. It was all too easy for Bull to imagine a fidgety little towheaded kid with honey-brown eyes and round, pink cheeks, bopping around in the choir loft of some stodgy old Andrastian chantry in the ass-end of nowhere. A far cry from the Commander’s stoic and dignified image nowadays, that was for certain.

“I’ll bet you were a real pain in the ass as a kid, Commander,” the Iron Bull said, still chuckling to himself.

“Ah, no … Not really.” Cullen shrugged, although his expression of fond remembrance wasn’t lessened. “I was the quiet one, actually. Branson – my younger brother – now, _he_ was the troublemaker.” Then he sighed, looking sad, and the laughter faded, until the last vestiges of good humour were gone from his face. He scrubbed a hand across his stubbly cheeks; although Bull saw the slight twitch of his damaged right hand, Cullen caught himself in time and used his left instead – he was learning quickly. Pain was a good teacher. “Maker, I should have written them more.”

_He sounds like he thinks he’s gonna die,_ Bull thought, as Cullen’s words ended in a fit of coughing. It wasn’t so bad as it had been when he’d first come back from the water-boarding, but the cough persisted. Every time it happened Solas pressed his lips together in a thin line – _Look, yup, there he goes._ The Bull knew he and Solas were worrying about the same thing: water in the lungs, mixed with the cold, damp cavern and repeated abuse. Not a great combination.

Bull was familiar with the deep-seated depression that followed torture. He’d felt it on Seheron – although in him, depression always manifested itself in fits of violent rage rather than sheer despair, no doubt drawing upon his Reaver instincts and nature to push him onward. He’d felt it again, to a far lesser extent, following his time with the re-educators, before he was declared “fit” and sent off to spy in Orlais. He knew what it was like to have his body brought low, to be made to feel helpless and weak. No doubt it helped for Cullen to have Bull and Solas there with him – assuming he wasn’t eating himself up with guilt over endangering them in the first place, although the Iron Bull was no longer convinced that Cullen had been the sole target of the apostate mages. But Cullen was hurting, and tired, and scared despite the brave face he put on it, and trapped as he was with him there wasn’t a whole lot Bull could do to assist.

“You should take a turn at napping, _lethallin,_ ” Solas said quietly, exchanging glances with Bull over Cullen’s tousled blond head. Repeated soakings had stripped away whatever pomade or wax the Commander used to keep his unruly curls under control, and as his hair had dried it had done so in a riotous profusion that made his head look like a fluffy blond dandelion. That he also kept running his fingers through his hair certainly wasn’t helping.

“It’s your turn,” Cullen protested, the words so predictable Bull was practically mouthing them along as he spoke. It _was_ Solas’s turn to nap, but that hardly mattered when Cullen was clearly the one in need of rest.

“My mind is stuck on a puzzle,” Solas replied. He spoke so casually Bull almost believed he was telling the truth were it not for the concerned look on the elf’s face. “I have been thinking over some aspects I last saw in the Fade, and ruminating over what I learned there. Hardly anything of significance to the here and now, of course, but an intriguing riddle nonetheless, and a welcome mental distraction. I fear if I attempt to sleep now, I will lose track of my thoughts.” He smiled ruefully. “It would be easier if we had paper here, and ink.”

“I’d settle for a big ol’ ham sandwich,” Bull said, playing into Solas’s angle, as if he didn’t think the whole ‘mental puzzle’ deal wasn’t just a convenient lie to justify Cullen napping in Solas’s stead. “That, and a couple of redheaded tavern wenches to share it with.”

“Not Dorian?” Cullen asked. There were faint traces of his own smile, and it gladdened Bull’s heart to see it.

“Nah,” Bull said. “Dorian doesn’t go in for wenches.” Mentally he thought _ba-dum-tiss!_ at what he considered a clever joke. Solas and Cullen simply groaned. Nobody ever appreciated his comedic genius - that was the great tragedy of his life.

Cullen sighed and shifted around, attempting to make himself comfortable. After their night spent huddling together the three of them had all but given up on any illusions of privacy. It was simply preferable, at this point, to share space and to keep as close together as possible. As such, once Cullen was settled on the ground he immediately rested his head on Bull’s thigh, using the massive Qunari for a pillow. Both he and Solas had taken turns in doing so: it provided Bull with extra warmth while giving them something to lay their heads on that wasn’t the hard ground. At first they had tried with Cullen using one of Bull’s knees and Solas resting on the other, but Bull found it was too much stress on his bad leg, which was only worsening the longer he was forced to sit in one position. It was harder for Bull to get comfortable when he slept, what with the chains forcing him upright – his neck, back and shoulders were starting to give him grief, fighting with his bum knee for top spot in the “everything fucking hurts but this fucking hurts _the most_ ” category – but he liked snuggling up with Cullen and Solas. Humans had too many rules about intimacy; Bull was all-in when it came to cuddle parties and sleeping in a dogpile. Bull hesitated a moment before brushing his fingers through the Commander’s hair, feeling Cullen stiffen and then relax into the casual caress. Sharing a small smile with Solas Bull began humming the tune to the Ballad of Nuggins.

Cullen had just drifted off to sleep - and the Iron Bull was beginning to doze off himself - when the rebel apostates returned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio's captivity continues, with some bright spots ... and some very, very dark ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for torture, (off-screen) implied sexual assault and graphic descriptions of injuries

_“Ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-seven bottles of beer, take one down and pass it around, ninety-six bottles of beer on the wall!”_

From across the cell Solas grumbled but made no further comment on Bull’s singing or his current choice of song. Bull was used to ignoring the complaints, however; one time, they’d been camped out on a rocky outcropping in Crestwood when he had broken out in song, and both Dorian and Lyre had gone pale and begged him to pick another tune. (Well, truth be told, Dorian had simply begged him to _kindly shut up,_ amatus, _you’re killing me,_ but Lyre had asked for a change of tune, anything but _that song._ Something to do with Redcliffe and that freaky time magic … stuff … Dorian had been on about when he’d first shown up in Haven months ago. Another time, another the Iron Bull, and memories neither Tevinter altus nor Elven Inquisitor wanted to discuss.) Solas, however, did not complain about Bull’s singing; he just made low disgruntled sounds with no particular focus on subject matter. Bull knew what he was griping about, just the same. Solas had started groaning almost the instant the Iron Bull had begun singing. Some people just didn’t appreciate raw talent.

The Iron Bull had started singing shortly after the mages had returned to take Cullen away, reminded of the Elven lullaby the Commander had hummed and the small amount of relief it had brought. Bull’s personal repertoire did not tend towards lullabies; he was more the sort to favour rousing drinking songs, the raucous anthems that Sera and the Chargers could coax out of Maryden at the Herald’s Rest, boisterous songs with a chorus fit to bring the roof down. Not as soothing as Cullen’s little ditty, perhaps, but pleasing to Bull’s ear nonetheless (if less so to certain _overly-critical and utterly joyless bald elves_ ). More than just being a means of keeping himself calm, however, the song served to help Bull keep track of the time, and while it wasn’t as accurate as observing the movement of the stars across the sky, it was enough to let Bull know that this time around, the mages had had Cullen in their clutches for much, much longer than their previous “interrogation” sessions had taken. Hours, easily, long enough that the magebane Solas was dosed with – again – had begun to wear off and Bull’s voice was growing hoarse from singing.

Bull and Solas didn’t talk about it – what was there to say, beyond _“My goodness, the Commander’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he?”_ and _“Gracious me, yes, I_ had _noticed that!”_ and neither of them was really known for facetious commentary – but the Iron Bull could sense that Solas was tense with worry, and his own raspy singing carried notes of strain that he was no longer bothering to hide. Cullen was a strong man, a remarkably resilient man, but that didn’t stop Bull from worrying. He knew, perhaps better than most, that everyone had a breaking point. If – when – Cullen finally broke, the Commander was filled to the brim with information that the Inquisition could not afford to have him share, particularly not with their enemies. That he didn’t _want_ to share it was irrelevant: sooner or later the mages were going to find one of Cullen’s pressure points and they were going to push, and that’d be the end of it. And now that Bull was convinced one of their captors was a Qunari spy, he was even more concerned with how these interrogation sessions were panning out. Amateurs, such as the mages obviously were, could get lucky and strike a nerve with their subject; someone with Ben-Hassrath training had tried and true methods for breaking a man down and tearing his secrets out. Cullen might be one tough son of a bitch, but the Iron Bull didn’t think he’d had any training to help him resist what the Ben-Hassrath could do to him.

Still, Bull knew that Cullen had been tortured by demons and hadn’t broken, and he’d been fighting a winning battle against lyrium addiction – which, to the best of Bull’s knowledge, nobody had ever broken free of before. That gave him _some_ faith in the man’s perseverance. Faith only went so far, however, and the Iron Bull was not an optimist at heart.

When Cullen finally returned the sight of him was like a splash of ice-cold water to Bull’s face, but Bull’s frozen shock was nothing compared to Solas’s reaction. As Cullen – naked, bloodied and carrying his clothing in a bundle in his arms – stumbled into their cell, Solas launched to his feet, spitting and hissing like a scalded cat, bubbling over with a rage Bull had only borne witness to once or twice before. The Iron Bull did not speak or understand much Elvish (aside from the occasional colourful phrase: he’d always had a knack for picking up the foul language first) but he understood _raw fucking fury_ when he heard it.

As it turned out, _What the fuck have you fucking bastards done to him?_ sounded much the same in the Elven language as it did in Qunlat, the King’s Tongue or Tevene. That probably wasn’t the direct translation of what Solas said, but Bull thought it came pretty close. He got the gist of it, at least.

Several things happened at once, and the Iron Bull, chained as he was at the rear of their cell, was perfectly placed to helplessly watch it all unfold as though he was sitting in the front row of a fancy theatre-house in Tevinter. Solas, his remaining drugged grogginess burnt away with pure rage, charged the first of the mages, only to be knocked back by the swing of a staff and a well-timed boot to the ribs. He went sprawling, still hurling invectives at their captors, just as Cullen’s knees seemed to give way and the Commander suddenly sagged, collapsing against another of the mages. Cullen dropped the bundle of his boots and clothing as he fell against the mage, fingers scrabbling over the man’s robes as though trying to find purchase to prevent his fall. The man snarled, kicking Cullen away from him, and then Cullen and Solas were both face-down on the ground, the Elven apostate struggling to get back to his feet while the Commander tried to curl up into himself. With one man giving a last parting kick at Cullen’s unprotected midsection, the mages turned and hurried out of the cell, one of them fussing at the drape of his robes as if to smooth out any wrinkles Cullen’s grimy, grabbing hands may have made.

As soon as the apostate mages were gone, Cullen pulled himself up to his hands and knees and began frantically pawing through his scattered belongings. From where the Iron Bull sat – his head, neck and shoulders throbbing with his efforts to pull himself free from his chains; he’d been fighting them the entire time he’d been watching shit go down; he did _not_ do helpless bystander well – Bull was afforded an excellent view of the Commander’s bare back. Cullen was filthy, bruised – and striped from neck to knees with fresh whip-marks.

Bull had seen whippings before – had experienced them, too, from both ends. When he’d done it (outside of the bedroom, which was its own thing and very, _very_ different from what had happened here) it had been a disciplinary action, a commanding officer correcting a subordinate’s misbehaviour. He hadn’t been trying to maim or kill his target. Likewise, when he’d been whipped himself, it hadn’t been with the intention of causing lasting harm. The strokes had been measured and even, enough to leave a mark but certainly not cutting deep, not even enough to scar. In his experiences whipping had been a part of discipline, not torture: meant to instruct and correct, not to injure and torment. Whoever had whipped Cullen, however, had done it with the sole intention of making the Commander suffer, with little concern over whether or not he would survive the experience. Cullen’s back had been whipped from nape to knees, the pale skin left bloodied and bruised and torn open. There was no uniformity to it, no distinguishable pattern or rhythm, rather as though whoever had done it had made certain to switch positions and change up their aim with every new stroke, so that as much of his skin could be hit as was possible. What wasn’t a raw, bloodied mess was dark with bruising, leaving no part of Cullen’s back unmarked. The Iron Bull - who had seen and lived through a lot of violence in his lifetime - had not seen anything like _this_.

Bull swallowed heavily, fighting down both a sudden roiling nausea and the urge to let loose with a string of expletives that would put Solas’s Elvish to shame. Neither response would do anything to help Cullen, however, and it wouldn’t make Bull feel better, either. He was good at suppressing his reactions, especially when they weren’t to anyone’s benefit.

“Commander?” Solas said carefully, rolling over to a sitting position and easing one hand up and under his own tunic to feel his ribs. Bull’s eye darted towards him, watching the elf fail to suppress his grimace at the dull ache under his fingertips; whatever pain Solas was in, it paled in comparison to what Cullen was experiencing, and Solas knew it as well as Bull did. When Cullen didn’t answer him Solas tried again, voice gentle, “Cullen? Are you –”

“No,” Cullen replied softly, not looking at either of them as he snatched up one of his boots. His voice was quiet but without inflection, carefully flat. He seemed in no particular hurry to redress himself, focusing instead on retrieving his footwear. His hand shook, fingers curling over the stiff leather so tightly his knuckles went white. “Whatever you think they did, you’re right, and no, I’m not all right, but we haven’t the time to worry about me.”

“What do you mean?” Bull asked, watching him warily, one-eyed gaze again darting to meet Solas’s worried look. “What’s going on?”

Cullen paused a moment to frown down at his clothing as if personally offended by it before turning back to his boots. Bull realized, after seeing the brief flicker of dismay on the Commander’s face, that the Commander’s small-clothes were missing. _A fucking trophy,_ he thought, lips pressed in a thin, angry line. One of Cullen’s hands – the right one, the one that had been injured – was curled in close to his chest, and it was with the left that he began tugging at the seams of his boot. Not pulling the footwear on, as Bull would have expected, but instead pulling something apart, ripping open something in the lining.

“Red lyrium,” Cullen said, voice still soft. He fought against an obvious tremor in his hand, forcing himself to focus on what he was doing, but he glanced over at Bull. Now that his face was turned, Bull could see fresh blood smeared down one cheek, and more from what looked to be newly-opened bite marks in his lower lip. It gave the ghastly impression that Cullen had been drinking blood, and that it had spilled from his open mouth down over his chin and across his bared chest. There were fresh gouges in his cheek, broad scratches from his jawline up over his eyebrow, that looked like he’d had his face scraped against something harsh, like rocks or unfinished wood. Bull’s imagination, quick as ever to put the pieces of a puzzle together, supplied him with the unwelcome image of Cullen shoved face-down over a rocky ledge, cheek pressed against a rough, uneven surface. He’d bitten through his own lip, no doubt to keep from crying out as their captors had –

Bull pushed the mental image away, blinking against the sudden stinging in his eye. Some days an innate sense of curiosity and a vibrant imagination served only to cause him trouble. Whatever the mages had done to Cullen – _Whatever you think they did, you’re right,_ Cullen’s voice echoed in Bull’s head, over and over again, and the fact that he was _naked_ and there were fresh bruises on his hips and around his wrists, and he was so very carefully _not talking about it_ – Bull didn’t need to know, not right this moment, not when there was nothing he could do about it other than to offer his sympathies. Cullen had already made it clear he wasn’t interested in platitudes and was instead focusing on the problem at hand. The spy in Bull - the man who was still, deep down inside, Hissrad - wanted to press for details; the friend in Bull, the man who shared tankards of Ferelden ale with the Commander, chose to honour Cullen’s wishes.

“Red lyrium?” the Iron Bull repeated, in an effort to distract himself from the thoughts of what had been done to Cullen. _Whatever you think they did …_ “Cullen, what the fuck is going on?”

“The rebel apostates answer to Calpernia,” Cullen said, turning his attention back to whatever he was doing with his boot. His voice, still soft, was remarkably calm and even. “She is sending them a shipment of red lyrium, to be used on us. Once we have … Once we’ve been _altered,_ we’re to be sent on to Samson. The lyrium was expected several days ago but it has … been delayed.” His mouth twisted into something vaguely resembling a sarcastic smirk – made all the more horrifying by the liberal splashes of blood covering his face – as he added, “It sounds like the Storm Coast is living up to its name.”

“Commander, how do you know all of this?” Solas asked. Bull was impressed by how little accusation was in the mage’s voice: Solas sounded concerned, rather than suspicious by the amount of information that seemed to have dropped neatly and conveniently into Cullen’s lap. Bull rather agreed with his caution; unless they had all fallen into one of Varric’s trashy novels (in which case any minute now a poorly-disguised version of Garrett Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, was going to come charging in to save the day), it was rather unusual for the villains of the piece to be sharing their nefarious plans with their captives.

“They thought I was unconscious,” Cullen answered, giving a stiff-shouldered shrug. He tugged one-handed at the seam of his boot, scowling down at the hardened leather. “They were afraid they’d gone too far with me” – a faint hitch in his breathing belied Cullen’s apparent calm, his face going studiously blank – “and were worried about what Calpernia would do to them, if I died. I don’t think she would approve of their idea of ‘Templar games.’”

“Templar games?” Solas repeated. As much as the Iron Bull wanted to know the meaning behind that – and he both _did_ and _did not_ want to know because his brain could all too easily supply the answer – he was far more concerned by the mention of Calpernia and Samson. Calpernia was one of the leaders of Corypheus’s Venatori mages; Raleigh Samson was Corypheus’s General, the head of the Red Templars. Either one of them spelled trouble for the Inquisition; both, together, were a nightmare. Cullen’s mention of red lyrium, as well as his off-handed reference to the mages’ plans for it – specifically, that it be used on the three of them, to turn them into the crystallized monstrosities that accompanied the Red Templars wherever they went – made Bull’s blood run cold.

Cullen made a curt gesture towards himself with his injured right hand, the fingers curled in towards his palm. “A _fun_ bit of roleplay,” he snarled, voice rasping as he answered Solas’s question, “with me in the role of ‘misbehaving mage.’ Need I spell it out for you?”

Solas let out a choking sound and shook his head, looking as though he might be ill. Of the three of them, the Iron Bull thought he was likely the one least-acquainted with the abuses heaped upon Circle mages by the Templars supposedly sworn to protect them, but he’d heard more than enough from Solas, Lyre and Madam Vivienne to get the grim picture. Ma’am had always been quick to state that her own personal experiences were nowhere near as unpleasant as the tales made it out to be but that in this (as in so many other things) she was the exception rather than the rule; neither Solas nor the Inquisitor had come from the Circles, and they had both only heard the stories about what happened there. Dorian referred to the southern Circles as “dismal little mage prisons,” but Bull understood from the sickness on Solas’s face that things were much, much worse than that. Bull had seen the Ben-Hassrath reports from Kirkwall and other cities where the Mage Circles fell, the rumours collected about abuses heaped upon mages by their Templar “protectors,” the liberties taken, the atrocities committed. Their mage captors were substituting Cullen for the Templars who had abused them, heaping upon him all the abuse that they and their friends and families had suffered.

No, neither Bull nor Solas needed for Cullen to ‘spell it out for them.’ Cullen’s nakedness, the blood on his face, the fresh lashes down his back, the bleak emptiness in his eyes that he was careful to keep out of his expression: all of that and more painted enough of a picture for them. Thanks to Seheron, Bull had experienced first-hand the horrors of war; he didn’t need Cullen to explain it to him, especially not when he could _see_ it there in front of him, written all over Cullen’s body.

The three of them fell into silence, Cullen resuming whatever it was he was doing with his battered leather boot. Finally, with a muted cry of triumph, Cullen yanked at the seam of his boot and produced a slim length of thin, bodkin-shaped metal. Bull blinked at him, jaw falling open in shock, his attention once more drawn outwards.

“Is that a _lockpick,_ Commander?” he asked, incredulous, once he’d finally found his voice again.

Cullen’s face was too pale and the bruises too stark, but there was no mistaking the smirk that pulled at his mouth again. “Why yes, the Iron Bull, it _is_ a lockpick.” With a sharp glance down at Bull’s bare feet he added, voice deceptively mild, “I’m just grateful they didn’t think to steal _my_ boots, as they did yours.”

Bull decided to ignore the less-than-subtle gibe and instead focused on the sheer absurdity of Commander Cullen Stanton _fucking_ Rutherford stashing burglary tools inside of his boots. “And you’re telling me you actually know how to pick locks? A good little Chantry boy like you?”

The smirk broadened, turning into an outright smile although it didn’t quite make its way up to Cullen’s honey-coloured eyes, which remained grim and dark. The good little Chantry boy snorted.

“I lived in Kirkwall for close to a decade, Bull. You’re practically handed a lockpicking kit with the complimentary gift basket the moment you walk in the city gates. And before I left, I spent the better part of my time trying to put the city to rights alongside the Champion of Kirkwall, who was every bit the rogue you’ve been led to believe. Of _course_ I know how to pick locks.” Then he sighed, frowning down at his injured hand, the fingers bent stiffly towards his palm. “Regrettably, however, I’m not all that good at it – certainly not good enough to do the job one-handed, and with my off-hand, at that. I was rather hoping that _you_ knew how to pick locks.”

“I do, yeah,” Bull acknowledged, deciding against pointing out the obvious fact that he was former Ben-Hassrath, an occupation even more likely to guarantee burglary skills than hanging out with the City of Chains’ most infamous son. He flexed against the bonds holding him in place, making the metal rattle. “I can’t get anywhere near that door with these damned chains on, though, and I can’t see the top of my head to pick the locks holding them, so I guess that means we’re still stuck.”

Cullen’s grin turned smug, and he carefully unfolded the fingers of his ruined hand, opening it to reveal a small metal key tucked into his palm. “Which is why I thought to steal this. Conveniently, I can also pick _pockets._ I’m rather shite at it, though, so I needed a distraction.”

Bull had to fight to keep back his bark of surprised laughter, instead releasing it as an amused huff. He thought back to Cullen’s entrance, when he had stumbled against his guards, all but collapsing against one of the men. With the addition of Solas flipping out and trying to attack the mages, their attention had most definitely been elsewhere. Damn, Cullen was good – the Iron Bull hadn’t even noticed him making the pinch, too focused as he’d been on his friend’s condition, rather than on where that friend’s clever hands were going. “ _Nice._ Is that the key to these chains?”

“I believe so.” Cullen handed the small key over to Solas, then bent to retrieve his scattered clothing. He frowned again upon remembering his missing small-clothes, but made no further comment, choosing instead to simply redress himself. In spite of Cullen’s smug smile and lighthearted tone, Bull noticed the way his hands trembled. He’d seen enough trauma and the victims of trauma to recognize the way that Cullen was focusing on what needed to be done _right now_ , rather than what had already happened. If he could fixate on the steps he needed to take to escape the situation, he could ignore the horrible things that had led him here. He didn’t have to think about what had happened, why his body hurt, what plans their enemies had for him, what horrors his future might hold if they couldn’t escape. Once the immediacy of their circumstances had been dealt with, Cullen was going to crash, and he was going to crash _hard._

Bull tried not to get his hopes up too much when Solas moved towards him, key in hand, to test the lock. When the key turned, and the three of them realized that escape had suddenly become a distinct possibility, Bull felt his heart pick up the pace, his mind already beginning to plan ahead the next steps. They had a means of escape: Solas could unlock Bull’s chains, Bull could pick the lock on the cell door, and Cullen had mapped out what he _thought_ might be an exit point. They had a tight yet frustratingly vague deadline: the red lyrium was (over)due to arrive any time now, they had no idea when the mages would come back to torment Cullen further, and surely someone would eventually notice the key to Bull’s chains missing – they would need to act before any of those things happened. Hope and urgency were on their side - and all three of them were excellent strategists.

Before he could stop himself, Bull reached out and caught Cullen by the wrist of his good hand.

“Hey, kid,” he said, forcing Cullen to meet his eye. He pitched his voice low, for Cullen’s ears alone; their cell was too small to afford them any privacy, but Solas graciously pretended not to listen in, and Bull appreciated that. “You doin’ all right?”

“No,” Cullen replied honestly, not meeting his eye, his gaze instead focused somewhere around Bull’s chin. He tugged his hand loose; Bull let him go easily, knowing full well that if he hadn’t wanted to free Cullen, there was little the Commander could have done to make him let go. Cullen didn’t look away, his earlier smugness given way to an almost desperate terror that he was working very hard at suppressing. “I’m not, and if it’s all the same with you, I should very much prefer not to speak about it.”

“Yeah, all right.” The Iron Bull nodded, mentally adding _For now._

Cullen turned away, but not before handing Bull the slim metal lockpick, which Bull tucked into the folds of his circus-tent pants. The back of the Commander’s shirt was already beginning to stick to his torn and bloodied skin in places, dark spots of blood seeping through the filthy fabric. Bull glanced at Solas, who looked up from his intense study of the key to meet his gaze. The elf nodded, arching one dark eyebrow in Cullen’s direction to indicate that yes, they were very much on the same page here when it came to the Commander’s reticence.

For now, when they still needed to hammer out the details of their escape plan and then put that plan into motion, Solas and the Iron Bull would honour Cullen’s desire for privacy. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened to him, that was fine – for now, because they had other things they needed to worry about. Once the three of them were out of there, Bull would consider his silence on the subject of Cullen’s welfare to be over and done with. _And then they were gonna talk._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if it's a little Mary Sue-ish of me to have Cullen know how to pick locks and pockets, but I like the idea of subverting the "good little Chantry boy" image of him, and in my headcanon he _did_ end up spending (way too much) time with the Champion of Kirkwall. My Garrett Hawke (who was something of an asshole, because I wanted a Hawke I could leave behind at Adamant with no regrets) was a rogue; he would have taken great delight in "corrupting" Cullen. (But more on Hawke later ...) And hey, it moves the story forward, so ... *shameless shrug*


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last: escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been giving me trouble but I wanted it up before the weekend, so ... ta-da! *jazz hands*

With the metal chains removed from his horns the Iron Bull’s head felt a hundred pounds lighter. The chains were not, in fact, _that_ heavy, but the weight had become psychological as much as physical and once Solas turned the key in the lock and he and Cullen pulled the chains away, Bull thought he would float away from the sheer relief.

He moved, slowly and cautiously, using the rough stone wall to pull himself into a standing position. His feet were all pins and needles, his left knee and ankle protesting the forced idleness as well as the sudden return to motion. The Iron Bull knuckled his fists against the small of his back and stretched, vertebrae clicking and clacking, joints popping, and when he twisted his head from side to side there were audible crunching sounds as his body realigned itself. The dull ache in his head and neck remained, and were unlikely to go anywhere anytime soon – he’d spent too long chained up and his body, battered from years of hard living, was no longer as forgiving as it might have been in his younger, pre-Seheron days. That was fine: he could handle a little headache, now that he was no longer chained to the wall like a fucking animal.

Fuck, it felt good to move. Almost better than sex. _Almost._

“Better?” Cullen asked, the faintest of smirks tugging at the unscarred side of his mouth as he crooked an eyebrow at Bull. He let the chains drop – carefully, so as to avoid making too much noise – onto the ground at their feet, then moved towards the bars of their cell, head tilted as if listening for something. When there were no obvious signs that their burgeoning escape attempt had been heard he turned back to the Iron Bull, a fierce gleam in his eyes.

“ _Fuck_ yeah,” Bull replied, his voice a deep, pleased rumble that would probably have been better-suited to the bedroom than to a cavern cell. He rolled his shoulders, giving a full-body flex just for the sheer joy of being able to move again, and turned to Solas. “All right, big guy, let’s get that piece of shit Saarebas collar off, yeah?”

“ _Please_ ,” Solas said emphatically. He moved in towards Bull and raised his chin, exposing as much of the mage-collar as he could. The Iron Bull wrapped his fingers around the stiff leather, adjusting his grip a few times until he could find the purchase he needed – the collar was too tight around Solas’s neck for him to be able to slip his rather large fingers in underneath, which made grabbing it awkward. Once he was satisfied that he had the best grip he could get, Bull yanked his hands apart with one quick, fluid motion, the collar coming apart in his hands. The runes embedded in the leather flared briefly before dying completely, the collar going inert. The leather hit the ground with a dull _thwap_ and Solas gasped as his connection with the Fade was restored.

The Elven apostate flexed his fingers, smiling with grim determination as a few faint, flickering sparks danced around his hands. Bull didn’t know a whole lot about magic – the Chargers had exactly one mage, and Dalish wasn’t exactly upfront about what she was or what she could do – but he suspected that the relief Solas felt at the removal of the collar was probably fairly similar to how Bull felt about having the chains removed. And just as Bull needed time for his blood to get pumping and his muscles to loosen up again, Solas would need time for his mana to return, especially after repeated doses of magebane.

Which was a damned shame, because Cullen was in serious need of healing, and some reliable magical backup would make getting out of there a hell of a lot easier.

“How’re we holding up there, kid?” Bull asked Cullen, while Solas set to with a will scratching at all the skin that had been covered up by the mage-collar. Bull, having been forced to wear a cast or a sling long-term as the result of (totally awesome and not at all ridiculous) heroics, could sympathize with the mage; he knew what it was like to have an itch you just couldn’t scratch. Literally, in this case.

Cullen straightened himself up, deliberately squaring his shoulders in spite of how much Bull knew it had to hurt. Adrenaline and excitement could only carry a man so far, and the Commander was dealing with a combination of injuries that were going to make moving around – especially if they got into a fight – difficult, to say the least. Even just standing up straight and putting one foot in front of the other was going to be agony for the man, but Cullen was making a solid effort at keeping the pain locked down. The Iron Bull knew this wasn’t Cullen’s first parade, that he’d been pushed to the limit in the Ferelden Circle and that Kirkwall hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park, either; still, he had to admire the man’s willingness to push whatever he was thinking and feeling aside in favour of getting the job done. The Commander was a badass and no mistake; maybe, when all this Corypheus bullshit was over and done with, the man would be willing to sign up with the Chargers, maybe bring along his Inquisitor girlfriend …

“I’m reasonably certain my back might _actually_ be on fire,” Cullen answered, tilting his head from side to side in a rough approximation of a shrug that didn’t involve moving his shoulders or his back, “but on a positive note, it’s distracting me from how much my hand hurts, so … I’ll chalk that up in the ‘win’ column.”

“There you go,” Bull said. He had to resist the urge to clap the man on the back. “Keep thinkin’ positive, Commander.” Cullen let out a rueful chuckle but elected not to respond.

Once the Iron Bull was confident he could walk around without tripping over his own benumbed feet the three of them got a move on. Although the lockpick Cullen had given him was less than ideal – strangely enough, skimpy metal picks designed to be hidden away in one’s boots were not best-suited to getting the lockpicking job done – it only took Bull three attempts before he managed to throw the lock on their cell door. When there finally came an audible click all three of them froze, exchanging hopeful, anxious glances that swiftly turned to elation when the cell door swung open.

Outside their cavern cell they were reliant upon Cullen’s directions and the rough map he’d sketched out in the dirt. Neither the Iron Bull nor Solas had been conscious when they’d first arrived in their prison, so they only had the snippets Cullen had obtained when he’d been carted off to one torture session after another. Fortunately the Commander had a keen eye for details and an excellent memory: his hand-drawn map (which Bull had memorized) proved to be incredibly accurate. The three of them managed to reach the side room where Cullen thought their gear was being stored without running into any of the apostate mages or the possible Viddathari spy.

Bull felt a ridiculous swelling of relief when one of the first crates he rummaged in led him to the recovery of his boots, as well as his leather harness (for his pillowy man-bosoms, according to Krem, the Chargers’ second-in-command), his bracers and the belts he used to hook his greataxe in place. Another crate held the greataxe itself, which had apparently just been tossed aside without any thought to proper care and maintenance: the blades were in desperate need of sharpening, there was blood and other muck in the fullers, and the leather of the handle was beginning to fray. Still, the axe was a welcome weight in Bull’s hands; it would serve until they could get to safety. And while the Iron Bull could _absolutely_ fight unarmed, his greataxe was sure as shit better than nothing.

Less pleasant was the discovery that someone had taken his ankle-brace apart, no doubt with the intentions of eventually selling it as scrap metal. Hefting the mangled bits of leather and metal in his hands Bull realized he didn’t have a hope of repairing it himself, and his shoulders slumped a little at the awareness that he was going to be hoofing it across the Storm Coast without any knee or ankle support. He could do it – he had done it before – but it was gonna fucking _suck_. There was something personal - something _violating_ \- about the loss of his ankle-brace, as though its destruction had been done with the intention of messing with him, but Bull consoled himself with the knowledge that once they were back at Skyhold he could commission Dagna to design his replacement. The crazy little Dwarf Arcanist could probably fashion the damned thing out of dawnstone, just for him, and then it would be functional _and_ pretty.

Across the storeroom from him, while Solas was recovering his staff and giving it a preparatory twirl, Cullen dug his own armour and weapons out of another crate. Like Bull’s axe, Cullen’s sword was badly in need of cleaning and sharpening, and his half-plate showed similar signs of neglect, but from the apprehensive look on his face Bull guessed it wasn’t his gear’s condition that was giving Cullen pause.

 _Crap,_ Bull thought, wincing. Cullen was in no shape to be running around in half-plate. The breastplate was going to be murder on his back – just getting into the damned armour was going to be agonizing, never mind moving around in it. Add to that the fact that the Commander was a sword-and-board fighter whose dominant hand was currently a twisted, mangled mess, and he was well and truly screwed. Cullen met Bull’s gaze, lips pressed together in a thin line as he assessed the situation. There was no help for it: just as Bull was going to have to make do without his ankle-brace, Cullen was going to have to either put up with the distress of wearing his armour or – unthinkable, to a man with his training – go without.

“Help me into this,” Cullen said, to absolutely no one’s surprise.

There was no sense in arguing, although Solas did point out that he could attempt some light magical healing on Cullen once some of his mana was restored – a suggestion that Cullen immediately vetoed in favour of Solas reserving his magic for fighting. Solas was skeptical; while not, strictly speaking, a healer, he was uncomfortable with the idea of the Commander going about with untended injuries, and the Elven apostate had enough skill that he could at least hope to ease some of Cullen’s discomfort. Cullen, however, was confident in his own ability to move and fight without the healing, and felt that Solas’s magic could be better spent setting their enemies on fire or providing the three of them with magical barriers. The two agreed to a grudging compromise: Solas would leave Cullen be and conserve his magical strength, but the instant Cullen showed any signs of flagging or being in trouble Solas would do his best to heal him. The Iron Bull suspected this just meant that Cullen would do his damnedest to keep the extent of his injuries hidden, but if the Commander thought he could keep going without Solas’s help then he couldn’t argue that the mage’s talents wouldn’t be better saved for a fight.

Hopefully Solas’s mana would recover quickly. _Hopefully_ there wouldn’t even _be_ a fight.

 _If wishes were horses,_ the Iron Bull thought, shrugging as he helped strap the shield around Cullen’s injured arm. The most realistic thing he could hope for right now was that Cullen would know his own limits – and even that seemed debatable, given how determined the man was. It was entirely possible that Cullen wasn’t aware that he _had_ any fucking limits.

Under normal circumstances the Iron Bull was very good at moving in almost complete silence. Other people were constantly surprised by how quiet he could be when he wanted (or needed) to be; no one ever expected the giant wall of muscle to be stealthy. Maybe, if he had favoured the heavier armour of the Antaam, and if he hadn’t had years’ worth of Ben-Hassrath training, it would be different, but one didn’t survive over two decades as a spy – and almost ten years of that spent as a spy on _Seheron,_ of all the deadly places in Thedas – by being a loud, clumsy dolt. (Contrary to what Dorian might grumble about when Bull woke him up in the morning.) Normally, Bull could be as sneaky as Cole or one of Leliana’s people – but normally he wasn’t limping around on a game leg after spending days chained to the wall of a cave. He was quiet, but he wasn’t _the Iron Bull quiet._

Solas, with his cloth-wrapped feet and lithe Elven frame, moved with barely a whisper of sound, wooden staff clutched in both hands, pointed ears twitching at the faintest sound. Cullen, on the other hand … No one ever expected a man in heavy armour to be quiet. When that man in heavy armour was also about five steps away from collapsing … well. Silent, he was _not._

They were not quiet. They were also not fast. The Iron Bull’s pulse was racing and a strong sense of urgency was whispering at him to hurry the fuck up, but moving quickly – or rather, forcing Cullen to try moving at a regular speed, injuries be damned – ran the risk of them getting caught. And so it felt like they were moving at the pace of molasses as the three of them crept from the storeroom towards the tunnel Cullen had tentatively marked as their exit. Based on the faint saltwater-scented breeze Bull could feel brushing past his cheeks, he suspected the Commander’s assumption was correct.

The Storm Coast had a number of cavernous, mountainous ranges, and the Iron Bull and Solas had both had the (mis)fortune of traversing a significant portion of them with the Inquisitor. Bull guessed, from the rock around them, that they were still on the Storm Coast; the stone here was that same familiar dark-grey, flecked through with serpentstone and summer stone, and occasionally illuminated with bright blue deep mushrooms. The air that moved through the tunnels was cold and damp and smelled strongly of both the sea and the spindleweed that grew in profusion around the rocky shoreline. As unfond as Bull was of the Storm Coast – far too many bad memories, the scent of gaatlok and the imagined screams of dying Qunari still haunting his dreams, months after the loss of the dreadnaught and the declaration of him being Tal-Vashoth – he was pleased to know that their captors hadn’t taken them to some other rocky, mountainous part of Thedas, far away from the site of their capture and the hope of rescue. Blackwall and the others would surely have reported back about the ambush and their capture, and the Inquisitor would have teams looking for them. And Bull didn’t know the Storm Coast well, but he knew it well enough that he was reasonably confident of being able to scout a way home from … wherever they were. Once they escaped, of course.

Wherever they were, it clearly wasn’t one of the cavern complexes Bull had been in before, with Inquisitor Lyre and the rest of her merry band of misfits. He would’ve figured that by now she should have cleared out every cave in Thedas – or at least every cave in Ferelden and Orlais – but obviously the Inquisitor had missed this one. Or maybe it _had_ been cleared out, and the apostate mages had moved in afterwards. The Inquisition was big, but their resources were not unlimited, and they didn’t have the manpower to occupy every last square inch of land, even the ones under the Inquisition’s protection.

“We should try to find other equipment,” Solas said, his voice little more than a whisper as the three of them crept down the tunnel. “We will need more than our arms and armour if we hope to survive the trek back to Skyhold. Or even the trek back to one of the Inquisition’s camps.” What he did not say – but the unspoken words echoed clearly in Bull’s mind – was that they needed to find medical supplies. Bandages, salves, ideally elfroot and lyrium potions if there were any to be had. Cullen might be convinced he could manage the journey on sheer willpower and spite, but Bull was not so certain. And while Cullen was certainly in the worst shape, all three of them had gone down swinging after the ambush. Bull’s and Solas’s own injuries were minor, but even minor injuries would make the journey back to camp more complicated.

Cullen paused, leaning one shoulder against the wall of the cave, and closed his eyes. For a moment Bull thought the other man was taking a breather, but after a few seconds the Commander opened his eyes again and said, cautiously, “There might be a storeroom closer to the barracks. Or what passes for barracks, down here. I can’t say for certain, however – I was only taken that way once, and I was … not as observant as I ought to have been.”

Bull took Cullen’s diffident tone to mean the Commander had had his wits scrambled at the time and was blaming himself for not being able to pay attention, as if being half-unconscious was an inexcusable failing on his part. He shook his head, careful not to smack his horns against the stone wall.

“More supplies or no, going closer to the barracks’ll be risky,” he said. “We’ve been lucky so far. There’s no way there won’t be anyone hanging out near there, though.”

Solas looked at Cullen and chewed at the inside of his cheek as he thought. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “There’s no help for it. If we’re to survive, we will need supplies. Food and water, we can forage for that, and we may get lucky with shelter, but we’ve no idea where these caverns will let out. What if we find ourselves miles away from the nearest Inquisition camp? Commander Cullen, your wounds _must_ be tended to, and –”

“I’ll be fine,” Cullen ground out between gritted teeth, a statement that might have been more believable if he didn’t look like he was swaying where he stood.

“This is not negotiable,” Solas replied firmly. He and the Commander both turned to Bull for support; Bull pinched the bridge of his nose between the tips of his fingers, scowling.

“We’re getting the gear,” Bull said, raising a hand to forestall any further argument or commentary from either of them. “Solas is right. We can’t afford to be stupid.”

Cullen looked as though he might continue to belabour the point, but after the stony-faced glare Bull gave him he snapped his mouth shut with an angry huff. Then, shoulders slumping – before, with a pain-filled hiss, he suddenly straightened them again – he motioned towards the left-hand turn at an upcoming intersection. “Let me remind you that I’m not entirely certain this is the correct way, or that there will actually _be_ a storeroom near the barracks.”

“Duly noted,” Solas said. Bull just nodded.

Greataxe at the ready, the Iron Bull took the lead, putting himself between Solas and the Commander and any potential enemies. He rounded the corner Cullen had indicated, pausing just in time to be able to duck back behind the natural blind of the stone wall as a mage stepped out of where Cullen thought the storeroom might be. Judging by the lack of reaction the mage hadn’t noticed Bull, which gave him time to heft his axe and surge forward.

Shimmering blue light settled over Bull as Solas cast a protective barrier upon the three of them. The barrier was flimsy compared to Solas’s usual spell-casting, but it was better than nothing at all and as Bull rushed the startled mage it more than served to ward against the man’s instinctive but weak flashfire. Bull was already moving forward, axe sweeping out to decapitate the mage in a single decisive blow. The man’s head – mouth opened on a silent cry – smacked across the floor with a wet, meaty thud.

The body hit the floor and the three of them froze, listening intently for any indication that they had been heard. There was no outcry, no sudden scuffling of booted feet, no flare of enemy magic. For the moment, it seemed, their luck was holding.

Bull grabbed the body and dragged it into what proved to be a storeroom, dumping the corpse behind a wooden barrel as Cullen, with a muffled grunt of pain and an expression of distaste on his face, bent and picked up the severed head to add to the pile. There was little they could do for the copious amounts of blood splashed across the stone ground and walls, but a minimal cleanup would have to serve.

Inside the storeroom – unguarded save for the one unfortunate and now-deceased mage – they found a smattering of useful supplies, including some bandages, a rucksack and a small selection of potions. Bull crammed as much as he could fit into the rucksack before slinging it up onto his back, and then the three of them were on the move again.

They doubled back towards the intersection, away from the barracks and the certain threat of more mages. This time there was no hesitation as Cullen pointed them towards another tunnel, the scent of saltwater growing stronger.

Luck continued to shine on them. With Cullen giving the occasional direction, Bull led the way through the tunnels, through the twists and turns of the cavern complex. Their progress was slow, hampered both by Bull’s bad leg and Cullen’s injuries, but they managed to avoid running into any more mages. The air in the tunnels grew lighter and Bull thought he could hear the crashing of the Waking Sea against a nearby shoreline.

Bull was just starting to believe that maybe the Maker did exist and that He was smiling on them when they rounded a corner and came face to face with three equally surprised mages.

Instinct propelled Bull into motion before he had time to think. He brought his greataxe up and charged forward, slamming into one of the mages as, behind him, Cullen made a strange choking sound and suddenly barreled into the mage to Bull’s left. This time around Solas wasted no time casting protective spells; instead, he whipped his staff out in a wicked slash, the blade end catching the third mage under the chin. Blood sprayed, the staff whipped around, and Solas dropped his opponent with a follow-up jab to the mid-section.

The mage Bull fought had enough presence of mind to cast a barrier spell on himself and his comrades – for all the good it did them – before sending a jolt of electricity in Bull’s direction. He tightened his grip on his axe, his fingers going numb from the static shock, and slammed full-body into the mage, sending the man sprawling in a tangle of limbs and robes.

Beside him, Cullen fought like a man possessed, heedless of his own injuries and wholly bent on bringing his enemy down. Handsome face twisted into a snarl, he used his shield to batter the mage, shoving the other man back into the hard stone wall before following up with his sword. The mage managed to get his staff up just in time to block Cullen’s thrust – metal blade set to a dull ringing off the heavy ironwood of the staff – and the shockwave of a mind blast sent both Cullen and Bull staggering back. Cullen recovered first, darting forward to take another stab at the mage while Bull’s bad foot slid on the blood-slicked ground and his knee gave a violent twinge that threatened to topple him.

Bull recovered in time to move out of the way of his own opponent’s fireball, the heat of the flames enough to singe the hairs on his arms. He adjusted his grip on his axe before lunging forward with a strike that took the mage out at the knees. The man went down screaming, his last-ditch efforts to cast cut short when Solas quickly dispelled whatever magic the mage was trying to throw at Bull. The Iron Bull finished the mage off with a brutal swing of his axe that caved in the man’s chest.

Another mind blast from Cullen’s opponent left both Solas and Bull – both distracted by their own enemy – reeling, but Cullen managed to stay firm and struck at the mage with another shield-bash, pinning the man between his shield and the wall. Bull – struggling to maintain his footing while both his knee and his ankle threatened to give – saw Cullen drop his sword and instead hammer his fist into the mage’s unprotected face. The mage’s head smacked back against the rocky wall behind him and his hand came up, fingers twisting in a complicated pattern. Before his spell could go off Bull felt a sudden lurch and beside him Solas let out a surprised grunt, the air around them going dull and heavy. Every magical aura within five feet of Cullen went dead - including the protective barriers the mage had cast earlier - as the ex-Templar released a weak Cleanse.

 _Didn’t know he could still do that,_ Bull thought, as Cullen followed up his spell-purging with a series of swift blows to the mage’s face.

It was difficult for Bull to tell if using his Templar abilities without the backing of lyrium was at all tiring for Cullen, because rage and adrenaline seemed more than enough to enable the man to carry on. Both Bull’s and Solas’s enemies were down, the third mage – Cullen’s opponent – dropping to the ground under the flurry of punches the Commander sent his way. At some point Cullen’s shield had managed to come loose and Cullen, heedless of his injured hand, used both fists to pummel the mage, who was no longer in any condition to try to ward off further blows.

The mage was dead, or close enough to it as to make very little difference, his face a ruin of blood and bone. Cullen – his own face a blood-splattered mask of vengeance – showed no signs of slowing down. The meaty sound of flesh striking flesh filled the close confines of the tunnel, interrupted only by Cullen’s harsh, gasping breath and what sounded suspiciously like snarling.

“Commander,” Solas began, trying to draw Cullen’s attention away from the dead mage. Cullen ignored him, and Solas wasn’t so foolish as to try to get between the Commander and his target.

 _“Cullen!”_ Bull had no such qualms: he caught hold of Cullen’s good arm and used it to wrench him away from the body, bringing up his other hand to block the fist that was suddenly aimed at his face. “Fuck’s sake, Commander, the man’s dead!”

Whether it was Bull’s words or the impact of his injured hand against Bull’s palm, Cullen snapped out of his rage-induced trance, falling backwards onto his ass. For a moment he just sat there, struggling to catch his breath, his eyes wide with horror and surprise. Bull was rather forcibly reminded of the time he, Blackwall and Lyre had accompanied Sera to a Red Jenny pick-up, where their contact had been killed and the four of them ambushed by some nobleman’s thugs. After the thugs were dealt with Sera had beaten the noble to death with her bare hands, stopping only when Lyre drew her attention with a comment about how _“at this point you’re just making wine.”_ Sera, for all her bluff and bluster, had never been comfortable with the messier aspects of violence: with the idea that she could – and had – just beat a man down to his component parts. The Iron Bull suspected that Commander Cullen had no such qualms; one could not lead a Templar’s life, or the life of the Commander of the Inquisition, without getting their hands dirty from time to time. Still, that lack of squeamishness did not prevent him from being horrified by his own loss of control.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Cullen began, horrified gaze shifting from the dead mage to his own bruised and bloodied fists to Bull’s cautiously blank face. “I don’t – I don’t know what came over me – I can’t even …”

 _I can imagine,_ Bull thought, glancing briefly at the dead mage. Had he been one of the ones responsible for Cullen’s injuries? Had he been one of the ones playing ‘Templar games’ with Cullen trapped in the role of the ‘misbehaving mage’? Or was he simply a substitute, a stand-in for the man or men who were responsible? Out loud the Bull simply said “C’mon, let’s get a move on” as he offered the Commander a hand up.

Bull helped Cullen to his feet, steadfastly ignoring the unhappy protest twinges from his own leg, and Solas wordlessly handed over the Commander’s sword and shield. There was a brief pause while Solas readjusted the straps securing Cullen’s shield to his arm and then a shuffle as the three of them recovered their gear, and then, without a backward glance, they were off again.

With an empty cell, a ransacked storeroom and four dead mages in their wake there was almost certain to be a hue and cry. The three of them moved as quickly as their various injuries would permit, the sense of urgency beating at them. Their former luck returned, Cullen’s memory and intuition leading them safely to the cave’s exit without them attracting any further attention.

And then they stepped outside, and the Iron Bull found he could breathe again.

Night had fallen, clouds obscuring the stars that might have given Bull some sense of direction. It was raining, the Storm Coast continuing to live up to its name, and in the distance Bull could make out the faint rumblings of thunder. He hoped this meant the storm had passed rather than that it was just beginning; the last thing they needed was to contend with a thunderstorm in the midst of their mad dash for the nearest Inquisition camp. Bull turned, gazing up at the mountains that rose up behind them, and turned again as he listened for the sea. He would have given anything to be able to see the stars, or to have found a compass among their stolen gear. In the dark and with no recognisable landmarks it was going to be difficult to get a sense for where they were and how far away safety might be.

“No guards,” Solas murmured, his own observations more close at hand. “Sloppy, but certainly convenient for us.”

“I kinda got an amateur sort of vibe off them,” Bull said. After further consideration he decided to simply pick a direction and move – anything to get them away from the cave and their former captors. “Shoulda had guards posted on our cell, shoulda searched our clothes and gear better, shoulda noticed Cullen stole that key … Lucky amateurs, the bunch of them.”

“Amateurs or not, we’ll need to send some Inquisition soldiers to clear this cave out,” said Cullen. His breathing was laboured and to Bull he seemed unnaturally pale, but he managed to keep pace with both the Iron Bull and Solas, as eager as they to be away from there. Although he chose not to comment, Bull suspected that the moment Lyre found out what had happened to Cullen she would personally head up her own war party to wipe these rebel mages off the map. It was bad enough that the three of them had been captured – Lyre Lavellan took her leadership duties seriously, and Bull, Solas and Cullen were _her people_ – but by torturing Cullen the mages had signed their own death warrants. The Inquisitor was a lovely person, kind and generous and caring, but she was utterly ruthless when it came to threats against her friends and family. The Iron Bull loved her for it.

Hiking the woods along the Storm Coast was unpleasant on the best of days. At night, in the middle of a rainstorm, while injured and fleeing from enemies – with no real idea of where, exactly, they were or where they were supposed to be going – it was downright miserable, and the only thing the experience lacked to really cap it all off was for Dorian to be there with a steady stream of complaints. (Bull both missed him and was grateful for his absence at the same time. He was sappy enough to admit he would feel better for his Tevinter lover’s fiery warmth at his side, but just as pleased to know that Dorian was not in danger with the rest of them. Not having to listen to the man bitch was … an added bonus.)

Before long the three of them were soaked to the bone and in search of shelter. Initially Solas had tried to use magical barriers to protect them from the elements, but it became too wearying for him and drained too much of his mana for him to keep it up for long. The only benefit of the constant downpour was that it made it that much harder for the rebel mages to track them – because Bull was quite confident that, amateurs or no, the apostates were going to come looking for their escaped prisoners. But the rain turned the trail behind them into utterly unremarkable mud, battered away the leaves and branches that might have given some indication of their passage, and otherwise made it so miserable to be outside that Bull began to hope they might be able to get away for good. At the very least he felt they were getting far enough away that it would be safe – not to mention entirely necessary – for them to seek shelter for the rest of the night. All three of them were drenched, shivering, exhausted and injured: they needed to rest, and they needed to find someplace dry and safe to do so.

Bull had no idea how long they were walking – it felt like days but the skies were still dark so dawn must still be a while away – before they came out along a rocky outcropping. To his left the forest stretched onward, to his right the earth gave way to a sharp rise, a steep, stony embankment that led down to the shoreline. The white-capped waves of the Waking Sea crashed against the rocky shore and beyond that, in the distance, he could see the mountains of Daerwin’s Mouth rising beyond the bay. Finally – _finally_ – he had some sense of where they were, and, more importantly, where the nearest Inquisition camp was.

They were closer than Bull would have expected, but still, not close enough to expect to make it within the next few hours. Had they just been starting out on their journey Bull might have suggested that they make a push for the camp, but not now, exhausted as they were. His knee was a steadily-throbbing agony yet he could scarcely feel his toes between the lack of proper blood circulation and the cold, and while Solas’s pace had yet to flag Cullen had fallen further behind, having to stop periodically in order to catch his breath and regain enough energy to keep moving. The elfroot potions Cullen had – grudgingly – consumed had done little to ease his injuries, and until they found shelter he wouldn’t let Solas “waste” his magic healing him. The man was ridiculously stubborn, but the Iron Bull had to concede that at this point Cullen’s stubbornness was likely the only thing that kept him going.

Bull turned, intending to confirm with the others his suspicions about where they were. Just as he glanced back to where Cullen stood, panting, he caught sight of torches and mage-light behind the Commander.

Mages. And judging by the sheer number of torches – a _lot_ of them.

Up ahead, though, he was sure of it: a Blades of Hessarian camp, with allies sworn to protect them. They just had to get close enough – or draw enough attention – for the Blades to notice them and come running. Assuming, of course, that the Iron Bull was right about where they were.

There was no help for it. Injuries and exhaustion be damned: they had to make a run for it.

Sudden shouts from behind them warned that the mages had spotted the three of them. The need for secrecy gone, Bull bellowed for Cullen and Solas to run and, swinging his greataxe down off his back, moved to put himself between the two of them and the apostate mages.

That was when the Iron Bull caught sight of the two men in the lead of their pursuers: one was clearly the Viddathari from before. The other was a tall, lean man in the black hooded robes of the Venatori. In one hand he held his staff, and the other hand was held aloft, something glowing with a sickening dark red light that spilled forth from his fingers.

Cullen made a choked sound, suddenly lurching to a stop, his entire body going rigid. Bull could see the way the other man was straining, as though he was trying to move but couldn’t convince his body to comply. The Commander’s eyes were wide, so wide Bull could see the whites of his eyes, and there was a growing expression of panic that was starting to come across his face. Cullen was frozen in place, body fighting against whatever was holding him there, and the panic on his face was rapidly shifting to full-blown terror at the discovery that his body was no longer his to control.

The Venatori gestured with his red, glowing hand, and Cullen did an about-face, turning towards the apostates. His sword dropped to the ground; after a few heartbeats his shield followed. The Iron Bull allowed his eye to drift away from the Commander – stock-still and trembling – to the black-robed mage, and saw the malicious glee on the other man’s face. The red glow in his hand thrummed like the pulsing of a heart. The man tilted his head, smiling, and made a beckoning motion towards Cullen. Even at this distance Bull could hear Cullen’s breaths coming in, fast and shallow and with a faint whimpering sound that reminded Bull of a dying animal caught in a trap.

The mage beckoned again and, with a tension that suggested he was trying to fight every single step, Cullen took a few lurching steps forward. The whimpering sound he was making turned to keening, his breathing hitched and frantic.

Solas hissed, one hand tugging at Bull’s wrist. “Blood magic! We need to run!”

Bull tossed him a confused look before turning back to Cullen. _Fucking blood magic._ That explained why Cullen’s body seemed to be working against him: the Venatori was using some kind of spell on the Commander, forcing him to obey the mage’s commands. “Can’t you dispel it? We can’t just leave him!”

Shaking his head, Solas tugged at the Bull’s wrist again, trying to urge him onward. “No, I haven’t the strength to fight him, not yet. We need to get away from here!”

Beyond Cullen and the Venatori the other mages were coming closer, torches and staves raised. The thundering of the waves against the shore and the persistent fall of rain drowned out almost all other sound, but over it all Bull could swear he could hear Cullen’s frantic breaths as he fought to regain control from the Venatori. Bull could see how vastly outnumbered he and Solas were – especially if the Commander was under the blood mage’s spell and thus of no use to them – but his instincts, his natural tendency towards mother-henning wouldn’t let him turn away. Cullen was his ally, his _friend._ He wasn’t just going to abandon the man, especially not to some fucking Tevinter _bas saarebas!_

“We’re not leaving him!”

“ _Fenedhis lasa,_ Bull, we have _no choice!”_

Cursing loudly Solas planted both hands on Bull’s chest and shoved, _hard_ , pushing him backwards. There was a sudden sense of freefall – the Iron Bull hadn’t realized how close he’d come to the edge of the outcropping – and then shimmering blue light settled around him as the world fell away.

The last thing the Bull saw before toppling over the edge of the cliff was Cullen’s face, turned towards them in a strange mixture of panic and relief as Solas and the Iron Bull left the Commander of the Inquisition to his fate - alone and in the command of a Venatori blood mage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'll be honest: I'm disgustingly pleased with myself for ending this chapter on a literal cliffhanger. Like, I literally threw two characters off a cliff. I'm sorry, I'll show myself out now. :D
> 
> On another note, I was reading a really cool Reddit thread (from about 3 years ago) that talked about the chess game that the Iron Bull and Solas play during party banter if Bull chooses the Chargers in _The Demands of the Qun._ That chess game is based on a real-world game, the Immortal Game, played in 1851 between two chess masters. While I know absolutely nothing about chess if you know the details of the game it gives you some in-character insights into both the Bull and Solas that helped me determine how this chapter would play out. Bull plays to minimize losses and preserve his pieces; Solas is willing to make sacrifices if it means long-term victory. That characterization is what I went with here (and man, I wish I understood chess better so that I could really appreciate how awesome their in-game match is).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iron Bull and Solas regroup.

Saskia had been an exuberant little horndog with curly red hair and tits that were a perfect handful. She and her sister, a barmaid at the Herald’s Rest, had swapped stories about him, before he and Dorian had decided to give monogamy a try. She had been vibrant and joyful and the Iron Bull had looked forward to running into her in Skyhold or at camp.

Now the excitable dwarven scout was dead, her magnificent chest caved in and half her face shredded away. If it hadn’t been for the curls – matted with blood – and the small size, Bull might not have even recognized her. What was left of her freckled face was frozen in a rictus of terror and as he bent to close her remaining eye a wave of fury rippled through him, that someone so vivacious could meet such a horrible end.

They were dead. They were _all_ dead. Every single Inquisition scout, soldier and runner at the Driftwood Margin camp was dead.

Bull swallowed heavily, the truncated fingers of his left hand brushing over Saskia’s cheek. Her skin was cold and damp from the rains and stiff in death. The fury built inside the Iron Bull until at last, having no other outlet, he straightened and turned on Solas, grabbing the startled elf by the shoulders and slamming him back into the wire mesh of the raven cage. The back of Solas’s head struck against the metal with enough force to rattle the cage, but there were no sounds of protest from the birds within, as all of them were dead as well, their little bodies littering the cage floor in a heap of twisted black feathers.

“Dead,” Bull snarled, giving Solas another shove. This time the elf managed to stiffen enough to prevent his head from snapping back, and although his stormy blue-grey eyes narrowed in anger he made no effort to fight back, letting Bull give vent to his anger and grief. “They’re all _dead_ and we fucking _left him!”_

“Yes,” Solas agreed softly, his hands coming up to wrap around Bull’s. His grip was strong but he didn’t attempt to pull Bull’s hands away from his shoulders; instead, he simply cupped his fingers over Bull’s, his touch gentle. “I am sorry for it, the Iron Bull, but your anger changes nothing. They’re all dead, the Commander remains in the custody of our enemies, and now we’ve no backup with which to attempt his rescue.”

“Crap.” Bull released Solas and staggered back a few steps, his eye drifting over the mangled bodies of the fallen Inquisition soldiers. Solas straightened, moving away from the raven cage and its sad contents, and brushed a hand over his robes, making a vain effort to smooth the wrinkles in the thick fabric.

_“Crap,”_ Bull said again, more softly but more emphatically, rubbing the blunt, calloused fingers of his right hand over the dark stubble beginning to grow on top of his head. Angry and frustrated as he was by the circumstances in which they found themselves – chiefly, by what felt like him to be a betrayal of the Commander, who certainly didn’t deserve whatever was happening to him in the clutches of a Venatori mage and an unknown number of apostates – ultimately none of this was Solas’s fault. The decision to run rather than stand their ground and attempt to free Cullen of the Venatori’s control, yes, _that_ was on Solas, but given the odds against them and the fact that the blood mage could have easily forced Cullen to fight them – or slit his own throat, even – now that he’d had time to cool down Bull could understand why Solas had made the choice that he did. Not that Bull was particularly pleased at being shoved off a cliff, however.

Still, his Tama didn’t raise an unmannered asshole. “I’m sorry, Solas.”

“ _Tel'enfenim,_ the Iron Bull, your anger is not unwarranted.” Bull didn’t understand the Elvish, but Solas was unperturbed, shrugging slightly as he stepped away from the raven cage.

The mage looked around again, his gaze resting on Saskia’s corpse. His face was composed, but there was obvious sorrow in his eyes as he asked quietly, “I take it you knew her?”

For some reason Bull felt a prickle of annoyance at the tone of the elf’s voice, as though Solas was silently judging him. Inwardly he knew he was just angry and lacked focus, and that the elf was merely a convenient target. Outwardly, however, Solas’s question brought to mind dozens of whispered comments and knowing glances thrown his way at the Herald’s Rest. People were so quick to judge him when they saw one satisfied barmaid or stable-hand after another leaving his quarters - and yet equally pleased to take advantage of that carefree approach to sex when it came to their own needs and desires being met. Or when it came to satisfying their curiosity about _riding the Bull._ He bristled, glowering down at the shorter man. “I don’t have to have fucked her to feel bad that she’s dead, Chuckles. But yeah – I _knew_ her.”

“ _Atish’an,_ ” Solas said mildly, raising a hand. _Peace._ “I wasn’t passing judgment. I may not be as casual with my affections, Bull, but I do not begrudge you your promiscuity. You take joy in physical pleasure; that your ways are not my ways does not mean your ways are _wrong._ ”

_Fucking right they’re not,_ Bull thought, but kept it to himself. He had been raised to place very different values and emphasis on sexuality, and coming south and seeing how the other races and cultures perceived it had been jarring, to say the least. Like Dorian, growing up a gay man in a society that placed too much emphasis on bloodlines and lineage, making it so that he had to flee his homeland and his own family in order to live the life he wanted, free from hiding who and what he was. Or Cullen, repressed from a lifetime within the Andrastean Chantry such that every intimate experience with his lover had to be some kind of big deal that he couldn’t just _enjoy_ but had to analyze and then feel guilt and shame over, until Lyre had come to the Iron Bull for advice on how to help the man through it. To Bull sex was just another need to be filled; as he’d explained it to the Inquisitor, when you needed your cork popped you went to the Tamassrans and it was no big deal, no more or less important than eating when you were hungry or seeing a healer when you were injured. Folks were a bit more free in Ferelden and Orlais, but still, he knew his approach to sex was much more laidback than the average man or woman at Skyhold. Some few had tried to slut-shame him, but you couldn’t shame someone who saw nothing shameful about wanting what he wanted.

“Saskia was a good woman,” Bull said after a moment’s silence. “She didn’t deserve to go out like this.” He frowned, single eye roving over the fallen Inquisition soldiers. “None of these folks deserved this.”

Solas was staring at the sad little bodies at the bottom of the raven cage, his face once more expressionless. “They killed everyone here and left them where they fell. The bodies do not appear to have been searched or moved. Even the birds and horses are dead.”

“Scorched earth tactics.” Bull glanced over at the aforementioned horses, butchered where they stood. The entire scene gave him uncomfortable reminders of Seheron: the Tevinters had done similar things in their efforts to render the island uninhabitable for their enemies. Tevinter policy, it seemed, meant that if _they_ couldn’t have something, _no one_ would have it. He thought back to the Venatori blood mage, the one who had Cullen in his thrall, and shivered. It was a safe bet the man was behind this; him, or more of his fellows.

It was as Solas had said: now, with everyone at Driftwood Margin camp dead, they had no backup and no way to gain assistance. Solas’s gambit – throwing himself and Bull off the cliff, hoping they could get away to get help – had failed, and they were on their own. There were no soldiers or scouts to support them against an unknown number of apostate mages and Venatori. There were no ravens to send word back to Leliana and the folks at Skyhold to let them know what was going on. There were no horses to carry them back to Skyhold, and without mounts the journey would take days – days the Commander most likely did not have. They could try to reach the other Inquisition camps on the Storm Coast, or search for their Blades of Hessarian allies who patrolled the area, but there was no way to know whether that effort would be as futile as their struggle to reach Driftwood Margin. For all the Iron Bull and Solas knew, their enemies had wiped out every single camp on the Storm Coast.

“Storm Coast was supposed to have been secured,” Bull said. Tearing his gaze away from the dead he forced himself to begin rummaging through the supply crates in the hopes that at least _something_ had been left untouched. The tents were destroyed – canvas shredded, wooden poles hacked to pieces – and the requisitions table had been split in two. Most of the wooden crates meant to store potions, replacement gear, medical supplies and weapons and armour maintenance kits were smashed, contents busted and scattered. It was another callback to Seheron for Bull: the enemy hadn’t even bothered to take anything, they’d just destroyed it all so that no one else could use it. “We never saw this coming.”

“We focused our gaze on the Red Templars and the demons pouring out of the Rifts,” Solas replied, bent over one of the fallen Inquisition scouts to close the dead man’s eyes. “We were not looking for apostates or Venatori.”

Thinking back to the blood mage, Bull’s frown deepened. He understood the rebel mages, or at least he thought he had. When the Circles fell in the wake of the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall and the resulting war between the mages and the Templars, it made sense for the mages to rebel and seek their freedom. They’d been oppressed and abused for so long, of course they’d gone a little crazy in response to being free. And maybe to outsiders – folks who never had to deal with Tevinter magisters and all the bullshit that came from that fucked-up country, Dorian and Krem aside – the Venatori represented freedom, coming as they did from a country where mages ruled and anyone without magic was a second-class citizen – or a slave. But it made no fucking sense to the Iron Bull that anyone could support Corypheus, and that was all the Venatori were, darkspawn-worshipping cultist assholes out to destroy the world. If the apostates were aligned with the Venatori, if they were working for Corypheus, they were playing into every evil, destructive stereotype about mages that existed. And while the Iron Bull no longer believed his own people had the right of things – the thought of Dorian or Solas or the Inquisitor with their mouths sewed shut, wearing the Saarebas collars, chained and bound, filled him with rage – he couldn’t help but feel that there had to be some kind of middle ground between enslaving or imprisoning mages as the Qunari and the Chantry did, and letting them run rampant over Thedas.

“We screwed up,” Bull said.

“The Storm Coast was supposed to have been secured,” Solas replied, echoing Bull’s earlier words.

“We _screwed up,”_ Bull insisted. “And these folks paid the price. And Cullen.”

“And Commander Cullen,” Solas agreed with a nod. He straightened, long, elegant fingers fiddling with the wolf jawbone that hung on a thong around his throat. It had been found amid their gear back in the caverns. A part of Bull grumbled at the unfairness of it, that his eye-patch and ankle-brace should both be lost to him – things he _needed_ and felt worse than naked without – while Solas’s decorative piece of bone and leather should so easily be recovered. Still, it was only a part of Bull; the rest of him was pleased to see Solas’s scant possessions returned to him. The man had so very little.

“We did not know of the maleficar,” Solas continued in a quiet, thoughtful tone of voice, using the term the Chantry reserved for blood mages. “Safe to say Commander Cullen would have mentioned, had he come across a blood mage or a Venatori during his interrogations.”

“Yeah.” Bull nodded, exhaling heavily through his nostrils. Given the Commander’s background as a Templar there was little chance Cullen would have kept such information to himself. He thought back to what little he knew about Cullen’s history, about the snippets the Ben-Hassrath had included in their report on the man and the slim details Lyre had filled in later on, in hushed confidence with Bull as she tried to find ways around her lover’s trauma. He remembered the look on Cullen’s face in the moments before Solas shoved Bull off the cliff, the sheer panic that had filled the Commander’s eyes, the way he’d fought against the Venatori’s magical hold on him and the terror he must have felt upon realizing he _could not fight._ Something sick and anxious settled in the pit of the Iron Bull’s stomach. “We abandoned him to his worst nightmare, Solas.”

“We did not abandon him, Iron Bull,” Solas corrected. “I made a tactical decision for us to retreat, lest we become captured ourselves. The Commander is an intelligent man with a solid understanding of strategy; he will understand.” Then he sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as he whispered, “It _is_ his worst nightmare, however, and I chose to leave him to it. Assuming the mages haven’t killed him –”

“They won’t have,” Bull interrupted, certain of it. “They want him for something.”

“Yes.” Solas nodded, grimacing. “How long, do you think, before they expose him to the red lyrium? Before he is made into one of their Red Templars and set against us?”

_Not long. Not long enough._ Bull glanced heavenwards, the night skies still full of dark storm-clouds. The rains had stopped – for the time being, although he had little faith the break in the storms would last for long – but the clouds remained. He couldn’t be certain of the time but thought dawn was still a few hours away. When he and Solas had tumbled off the cliff they’d been swept away by the waves, but they hadn’t been in the water for long. He guessed the cliff they had fallen from was about less than an hour’s march, and the cave they had escaped perhaps half a day away if they moved swiftly enough. Solas’s barrier spell had protected them both from being battered and dashed about by the waves, but he was cold and tired and his leg ached abominably, and he doubted his ability to move too quickly for long. He didn’t know how long Cullen had – trapped among apostate mages, a Viddathari spy and a known Venatori blood mage in what was, essentially, the Commander’s worst nightmare – but he was very afraid it wouldn’t be long enough. Would the mages march him back to the cavern complex, to where they were most likely storing the red lyrium they might use to turn him? Or did they have some other nefarious plan in mind for him, and if so, where and when would that plan be enacted?

It didn’t matter: Bull and Solas were going after him, regardless. The only difference was whether this would be a rescue mission – or a recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short and rather meandering chapter (with no action and a lot of angst-filled dialogue). Just setting the stage for the next chapter ...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen learns what the enemy has planned for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Cullen's point of view, and given his current circumstances that means a _lot_ of trigger warnings are in place: torture, previous off-screen non-con, implied off-screen non-con, threats of non-con, some slight suicidal ideation and a significant amount of guilt/self-loathing. Cullen is _not_ in a good place.

There was a demon stalking the edges of the camp, just beyond the reach of the campfire. Its twisted, misshapen body slinked and swayed, moving with an unnatural grace that seemed ill-suited to its gangly form. Its mouth, open and gaping with rows of sharp white teeth, was stained with his blood. The mages were feeding him to it, drop by dark red drop stolen from an open wound in the crook of his elbow. When they tired of playing with him – when they tired of _punishing_ him – the demon would take over, its grey-skinned and eyeless face inches from his own, its voice a constant whisper in his head.

_“Will this let me know you?”_

Cullen shuddered, matted blond curls brushing over the wooden pole he was bound to. Hours ago – days ago? time had lost all meaning for him – he had bashed his head against the pole, trying to shake the demon’s grasp; one of the mages had healed the wound but the blood remained, leaving his hair sticky and stiff. His arms were bound together and tied up over his head, the thick leather digging into his wrists, cutting off the circulation to his hands. That was all right, it meant his right hand no longer hurt, it meant he could no longer feel his twisted, dislocated fingers. He felt more exposed with his hands bound over his head; he couldn’t protect his midsection. It didn’t matter, though: with the demon inside his head there was nothing about him that _wasn’t_ exposed.

This was a rare respite, for the mages had decided to leave Cullen alone for the moment and the demon had not yet resumed its efforts to _know_ him. He was not so foolish and naïve as to hope that both mages and demon were done with him, but he would take such relief as he could find it. Sooner or later his torture would resume, whether it be at the hands of the mages who sought to use him as a substitute for every Templar who ever caused them harm, or at the seemingly endless poking and prodding of a monster that wanted to know every aspect of him, inside and out.

It would have been an understatement to say that the mages were unpleasant. Their anger and hatred of him was not, in Cullen’s mind, entirely unjustified; he was a (former) Templar, he had been a participant in the power structure that had imprisoned them and seen them abused, maimed and killed. In Kinloch Hold Cullen had been young and idealistic, a bright-eyed and shiny young Templar who truly and wholeheartedly believed in the Order’s goals and wanted to protect the mages from themselves and from a greater world that feared and hated them. After Kinloch, though … That shine was gone. The things he had endured there when the Ferelden Circle fell had left him particularly vulnerable to the kind of festering malevolence that was Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard; under her leadership Cullen was every bit as guilty of cruelty and violence toward mages as his captors believed, and he believed himself deserving of their treatment of him. He had wielded the Brand of Tranquility, he had turned his head from the suffering of mages, even when people like Garrett Hawke and Anders had come forward to tell him about the atrocities being committed within the Kirkwall Circle. He was no innocent, and his captors knew that, and even if he had not been personally responsible for the suffering they had experienced he made a suitable stand-in for those Templars who _were_ responsible.

And so the rebel apostates were unpleasant, and when they were done with him one of their own used healing magic to put him back together, at least enough to ensure that he wouldn’t suddenly expire on them once their fun was over. Broken bones were knitted back together – not properly aligned or set, but open breaks were closed and there was nothing to interfere with their enjoyment of him. Wounds were closed, save for the jagged slice inside his elbow that they drew blood from to feed their demon. Most of the bruises were left as they were so that the mages could admire their handiwork and the shifting colouration. They were careful to avoid doing anything permanent, and so for the time being Cullen still had all his limbs and the appropriate number of body parts. He had the strong sense that this courtesy had a time limit, and when that time was up … well, it didn’t really bear thinking about. Things weren’t going to end well for him, to say the least.

He was sick, he knew that much. The cough that had plagued him in the caverns following his water-boarding persisted, and his chest hurt _all_ the time, a dull, scratchy ache when he breathed that turned to fiery agony when he coughed. Sometimes he was too hot and sometimes he was too cold and sometimes there was a strange mixture of both where he was left shivering, shaking and sweaty. The mages jested about that, how hot his skin was or how cold his hands, voicing disgust over his cool, clammy flesh and the fact that he stank of sweat and sickness, as if that was something he could have prevented during his imprisonment. His head ached all the time – the campfire was too bright, their mocking laughter too loud, and all he wanted to do was sleep. The mage responsible for healing him saw no point in curing him of whatever cold or fever he had, so Cullen’s condition worsened, and the apostates delighted in his suffering. So long as he wasn’t so sick that he was dying or incapacitated, there was no need for him to get better. He just needed to be well enough to be _fun._

The demon, on the other hand, didn’t even need Cullen to be conscious to make use of him. Oh, it _preferred_ him awake and cognizant of what the demon was doing, but it could poke around inside his mind whether he was aware of it or not. Awake, Cullen felt the demon’s prodding, sensed the way it rifled through his memories searching for all the ways it could know him. Unconscious, the demon manipulated his dreams and brought to mind every nightmare he’d ever had and then twisted every pleasant dream into something horrible and terrifying. The demon never did the same thing twice; it wanted to learn everything it possibly could about Cullen, and learning required different strategies and varying approaches. And although when he was awake he could protest and fight the creature, that seemed only to entertain it; if Cullen thought something worth protecting – childhood memories, perhaps, or pleasant moments shared with Lyre or their friends – the demon would latch onto it, tormenting Cullen with all the ways it could make that precious thing tainted. Every response Cullen had, waking or unconscious, was something new the demon learned about him, and there was no hiding from it.

_“Will this let me know you? Can I use this to become you?”_

Cullen knew what the demon was doing. He could dismiss the mages, unpleasant as they were; perhaps, if he hadn’t survived Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall and the dreadful months after the Chantry explosion where an already-dangerous city became a waking nightmare, he might have been more troubled by what the rebel apostates did to him. The mages were petty and cruel and vicious and violent, and one or two of them might be honest-to-goodness sadists who were surely eventually going to be either made Tranquil or turn into abominations – but their malice was not especially creative, and the only thing they wanted from Cullen was his suffering. Denying them that was simply a matter of putting on a stoic face and laughing through their abuse, something a post-Kinloch Hold, post-Kirkwall Cullen Rutherford was perfectly capable of, much as that stoicism and mockery simply landed him more abuse. The demon, however, was not interested in Cullen’s suffering so much as it was an amusing side benefit of its true intent, which was to learn everything it possibly could about him in order to eventually _become_ him.

Envy demons were rare. So rare, in fact, that many younger Templars had no training in how to deal with them or even knew what they were. After Lyre Lavellan had recruited the mages at Redcliffe, however, Bull’s Chargers were sent to Therinfal Redoubt to investigate what had become of the Templars, and while there they had discovered that an Envy demon had taken up residence. Once that had all been sorted out Cullen, Cassandra and a team of researchers had done their best to learn everything they possibly could about that particularly nasty breed of demon, and so Cullen had a very good idea of what he was looking at whenever an insidious voice whispered inside his mind _“Will this let me be you?”_

At the time Cullen had thought the research to be purely academic. The Chargers, led by the Iron Bull’s lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, had killed the Envy demon they found at Therinfal. It seemed unlikely that, even with Rifts opening up all over Thedas, the Inquisition would come across another one. They were _rare. Extremely_ rare. Records from the Templar Order barely made mention of them, and Cullen could count on one hand the number of instances where they featured historically (although, given their chameleon nature, perhaps that number was actually much higher than previously believed). Now, however, Cullen wracked his brain for every drop of information he could remember, trying desperately to figure out some way to block the demon, because if the Envy demon was trying to learn everything it could about him that could only mean one thing.

It meant to _replace_ him.

Cullen was not so enamoured of himself that he thought replacing him would be particularly glamorous or exciting, but there were obvious strategic benefits to doing so. First, he was the Commander of the Inquisition’s military, and through him their enemy could control and misdirect the Inquisition’s forces, causing all sorts of chaos and damage across Thedas. The demon could completely cripple their operations, undermining their efforts at every turn. Their enemy would have access to incredible amounts of sensitive information, not the least of which included their plans for taking down Corypheus and his forces. Worst of all, though, to Cullen’s mind: his demonic double would have complete unfettered access to the Inquisitor. Not just in War Room meetings or in passing moments at Skyhold, but … intimately and privately. Thoughts of what the Envy demon – and through it, their enemies – could do to Lyre filled Cullen with unbridled terror, far worse than what the mages had done to him or what his own eventual fate would be once the demon knew everything it needed. His best hope would be for Lyre or her advisors to see through his replacement, but even that was a chancy thing: all the demon needed was a few seconds alone with her, enough time to slit her throat or push her off one of the many high parapets at Skyhold. With Lyre dead there would be no one left to close the Rifts, and while perhaps the Inquisition could stop the rest of Corypheus’s plans, Thedas would still be doomed, overrun with demons as Rifts opened up across the world.

And Lyre, the woman that Cullen … loved … would be dead, and it would be Cullen’s fault.

The demon skulked along Cullen’s periphery, keeping just outside the ring of golden light provided by the campfire. The mages paid the creature no heed; he had noticed that they were, by and large, uncomfortable around the Envy demon but that they did their best to pretend as though its presence did not bother them. The Venatori – the blood mage who used Cullen’s own blood to compel him – controlled it, and the mages were afraid of that man as much as they were afraid of the demon itself, though they were equally loathe to demonstrate their fear of him. The Venatori was in charge, Cullen could see that now, but he had no idea if the mage had initiated the ambush that had led to his capture along with Solas and the Iron Bull, or if the man had simply arrived afterward and taken advantage of the situation. Either way, while the rebel apostates were certainly a problem, the Venatori and his demons were the real threat, and Cullen held out hope that Solas and the Iron Bull had escaped and would be able to warn the Inquisition about them. Surely the pair of them would have made it back to one of the many Inquisition camps along the Storm Coast, and from there they could send word back to Skyhold. They might not know the full details of the apostates’ plans, but what they _did_ know was more than enough to send reinforcements to reclaim the Coast.

Scuffling noises drew Cullen’s attention away from the demon, and he turned to see one of the mages peeling off from the group near the campfire and making his way towards the wooden post where Cullen was tied. He felt a momentary twinge of panic that was quickly shoved deep down inside: this mage – Cullen had taken to calling him ‘Tiny’ for reasons that would likely earn him a grudging laugh from the Iron Bull and a brutal beating from the mage himself – was arguably the worst of the lot, aside from the Venatori himself. He was an unremarkable-looking man with dark hair and fair skin, the sort of man one saw across Ferelden and who wouldn’t have stood out in a crowd anywhere from Denerim to Haven. At first Cullen had felt some slight sympathy for the man: his sister had been a mage rendered Tranquil when she refused to submit to Templar abuses, and it was clear that both the man and his sister had suffered terribly at the hands of the Templar Order. What was also clear, however, was that Tiny had taken the excuse of his suffering to petty extremes and used his righteous desire for vengeance as a means of exercising his most sadistic fantasies. The other mages were as wary of him as they were of the Venatori and his demons, and not because the mage was powerful, but simply because he was exactly the sort of mad dog who needed to be put down before he snapped and attacked his own allies. So long as he had someone like Cullen to take his rage and malice out on, things were fine – for the other mages, if not for Cullen – but when he didn’t have Cullen to abuse he directed his vicious temper towards his fellows.

Tiny was very, very displeased with the Venatori’s plan to use the Envy demon to replace Cullen. Not because he thought it was a bad plan, but because it meant that he had to be careful not to render Cullen useless – he had to put restraints on his behaviour. He couldn’t go _too_ far with Cullen. And he didn’t get to have Cullen all to himself: he resented the time the Envy demon spent with their captive, because it was time _he_ didn’t get to enjoy. The Venatori kept taking Tiny’s toy away, and it made Tiny very, _very_ unhappy.

Naturally, because Tiny was not the sort of man who was brave enough to challenge his true adversary – in this case, the Venatori blood mage, who was far, far more powerful and more dangerous than he could ever hope to be – he took his anger and frustration out on Cullen. That the Commander was the Venatori’s little “project” was, naturally, all Cullen’s fault, and Tiny had no qualms about making sure Cullen understood this fact.

“Taking a bit of a breather, are we, Commander?” the mage sneered, pitching his voice low so that only Cullen could hear him – although Cullen rather doubted the other mages gave a nug’s arse what Tiny did to him, so long as he wasn’t killed or otherwise taken out of commission.

Cullen elected not to answer, as nothing he said or did would deter the man from coming after him now that he had chosen to do so. Bound as he was with his hands tied over his head there was little Cullen could do to protect himself even if his injuries and escalating illness weren’t already enough to leave him vulnerable.

“You’re looking a little under the weather, Commander,” Tiny continued, sidling in closer so he could set the back of his hand to Cullen’s forehead to check his temperature. The man’s hand felt cold as ice to Cullen and he had to resist the urge to lean into it simply for the relief it provided his fevered flesh. Tiny made a _tsk_ -ing sound and shook his head in mock sympathy, saying, “Seems you’ve got a spot of fever, Commander. I do hope it’s not the Orlesian disease. You never know _what_ Templars will stick their cocks in, do you? Whatever it is, you better not have given it to me.”

Cullen bit his tongue, swallowing heavily. The man’s derisive tone brought back memories of the cavern and of being shoved facedown over the rocks, of Tiny and his friends lining up to take their turns with him. That he understood – in a purely academic sense – the power-play of rape did little to diminish the fear of it happening again. Telling himself it wasn’t any different from what he’d gone through in Kinloch Hold was not especially helpful, nor did it particularly matter to him that it was the mages’ goal to make him feel helpless, powerless and worthless, and that by letting them _get_ to him he was letting them _win._ And with the Envy demon close by, the absolute last thing Cullen wanted to do was give the monster more fodder, more ways to _know_ him.

Tiny turned towards a noise from nearer the campfire, eyes narrowed as he waited for one of the other mages – or perhaps the Envy demon itself – to come and interrupt his fun. When no interruption was forthcoming he gave Cullen a slow, malicious smile and moved in closer, one hand resting on Cullen’s hip. Unsurprisingly once the mages had Cullen in their custody again they had immediately divested him of his armour; his sword and shield had been left behind at the top of the cliff where he’d been recaptured. He was reasonably confident he still had the lockpick tucked in his boot, but it did him little good when his hands were tied over his head and he couldn’t reach his feet. Never mind that there were no locks to pick, just some tight strips of leather that were beginning to dig into his skin. Stripped down to his boots, trousers and shirt he felt ridiculously exposed and helpless, made smaller for the lack of his breastplate and fur-trimmed cloak. Tiny’s hand felt like a brand through the thin fabric of his trousers.

Cullen closed his eyes as the mage dragged his hand up under his shirt, fingertips pressing down over the wealth of cuts and bruises. A younger, more naïve Cullen would have tried to escape the situation – if in mind only – by fleeing inwards to happier thoughts, memories of time spent with Lyre and the delight she taught him to take in their shared flesh. But that younger Cullen was from before Kinloch Hold, when his attempts to avoid a similar fate had resulted in his childish infatuation with one of his mage charges being used against him by the demons that had taken over the Circle tower. With the Envy demon stalking around somewhere in the darkness the _last_ thing Cullen wanted was for his memories of Lyre to become as tainted as his boyhood crush on Lea Surana, the woman who went on to become the Hero of Ferelden. It had taken him a long, long time to get over what had been done to him in Kinloch; if he survived this latest torment, he would not see it undoing the progress he had made.

“What’s going on here?”

At the unexpected interruption Tiny’s hand pulled away as though Cullen’s skin was on fire – which, Cullen reflected, it might very well be given how feverish he felt. He opened his eyes, blurrily blinking at the young mage who had joined them. The man – boy, rather; Cullen thought the young mage couldn’t have been a day past fifteen, and he almost certainly hadn’t been put through his Harrowing yet – was glancing uneasily between Cullen and Tiny, a small frown pulling at his lips. He was a newcomer, sent over from wherever the mages’ hideout was as one of the few mages with any healing talent. Snub-nosed, freckled and mawkish-looking, he was the only mage who didn’t participate in Cullen’s torture; he seemed genuinely disturbed by what the mages were doing, and Cullen found himself questioning what in the Maker’s name he was even _doing_ with them.

Tiny pulled away from Cullen but not before Cullen caught the slow roll of his eyes. When the mage turned to look at the younger man his face was set in an easy, friendly smile rather than the patronizing exasperation Cullen had seen him express before.

“I’m bored,” Tiny said, shrugging. “Evandrus’s demon is taking a break, so I thought I’d play with our guest for a little while.” Evandrus, Cullen recalled, was the name of the Venatori blood mage. While most of the other mages were obviously wary of the man, Tiny in particular seemed to resent his presence in their group, and the ex-Templar couldn’t help but wonder if the Venatori had somehow supplanted Tiny’s leadership. A different person - Leliana, perhaps, or the Iron Bull - might have been able to use that information, to try and manipulate Tiny and the Venatori against each other, but Cullen’s skills didn’t tend towards manipulation or social machinations. The best he could do was to continue to observe the discord between the two and hope for a natural opportunity to take advantage of it.

“You’re not going to hurt him, are you?” the boy asked, as if Tiny and the other mages hadn’t been tormenting Cullen the entire time he’d been in their custody.

“Nah,” Tiny answered, in a way that sounded suspiciously like he was saying _Not anymore, at least_ to Cullen. He pretended to cast a thoughtful glance in the boy’s direction, looking the younger man over before asking in a deceptively mild tone of voice, “Say, kid, you’re not a virgin, are you?”

In the darkness it was difficult to say for certain, but Cullen thought the younger mage blushed, and he stammered for a bit before finally admitting that he was, indeed, a virgin. The boy’s embarrassment was obvious, as though virginity at the tender age of fifteen (or thereabouts) was something to be ashamed of, and Cullen suspected that his compatriots had made fun of him for it before. Cullen groaned inwardly, already knowing where this conversation was headed. Outwardly, however, he kept his face carefully blank, not wanting to give Tiny the satisfaction of knowing how deeply troubled he was by this turn of questioning. It was bad enough that the younger mage was hanging out with these apostates; aside from his choice of friends the boy seemed like a decent person, and it angered Cullen to witness Tiny trying to drag the boy down to his level.

Sure enough, Tiny let out a patronizing chuckle and gave Cullen’s hip an inviting slap; it wouldn’t normally have been hard enough to hurt, but the mage’s open palm landed on a particularly sore patch of bruises and Cullen couldn’t suppress the startled grunt of pain at the impact. Tiny’s grin broadened.

“You should give our friend here a go,” he said, slapping Cullen’s hip again. This time Cullen managed to avoid responding in any way although he longed to wrench his hands free of the leather straps tying him in place and throw himself at the man, injuries and illness be damned. He entertained the brief but thoroughly satisfying thought of throttling the mage, and took care to keep his momentary pleasure to himself.

The boy’s eyes widened and he shook his head, a look of horrified fascination on his face. His response, however, made Cullen question his initial impression of the boy’s decent nature, because instead of saying something along the lines of _“No, I don’t hold with rape”_ or _“No, that would be_ wrong” what he said was, “B-but I like girls!” As if _that_ was what was wrong with the situation, that Cullen was a man instead of a woman, not that Cullen was their prisoner, sick and injured and quite obviously _unwilling._

Tiny chuckled again, and he fixed Cullen with a dark look as he said, “You know what the Templars used to say in my old Circle, kid?” The boy shook his head as Tiny continued, still staring at Cullen, “‘When whores are few, a mage will do.’ You’re lucky your Circle wasn’t like that, kid. Bastard Templars were always taking liberties with us. Any of us mages said no, out came the Tranquil branding iron. How many mages do you think this bastard made Tranquil? How many mages do you think tried to say no to him? Turnabout’s fair play, if you ask me.”

When the boy turned to Cullen with an angry, speculative look Cullen felt the bleakness rise up within him, and he closed his eyes against his despair. What could he do? What could he say? No, he’d never raped any of the mages in his custody? No, he’d never taken ‘liberties’ with any of them? Maker, he’d been so shy and chaste he’d run in terror the moment the object of his boyish infatuation showed any interest in him – the idea of taking _advantage_ of Lea, or indeed taking advantage of _anyone_ was completely abhorrent to him. But he _had_ wielded the branding iron. He _had_ participated in the Rite of Tranquility. After the events of Kinloch Hold he had requested – no, he had _demanded_ the Circle be annulled, and he’d carried that monstrous anger over to Kirkwall where he’d deliberately turned away from the crimes his fellow Templars committed and ignored the growing evidence of his Knight-Commander’s madness. What could he say to Tiny and the boy, that he wasn’t guilty of _that_ crime, but he was guilty of so many others? What difference did it make?

_“You’re a good man, Cullen Rutherford.”_ Lyre’s voice, filled with compassion, drifted through Cullen’s mind, one of the many, many times she’d talked him down after a particularly bad nightmare. But Lyre didn’t _know,_ she hadn’t been there in Kirkwall, she didn’t know what he’d done or what he’d allowed to be done.

Tiny, in the interest of expediting matters – chiefly, because Cullen was significantly taller than both mages, especially with his arms strung up over his head – took out his belt-knife and used it to cut the leather straps holding the Commander in place, all the while offering up suggestions as to things the younger mage might be interested in doing to Cullen. His arms dropping to his sides sparked fresh agony in Cullen, blood racing to his deadened fingertips, the muscles in his shoulders and back protesting the movement. The change in position made the wounds on his back flare up, pulling open scabbed-over lash-marks and tugging at bruised flesh, and he cried out, unable to hold back his discomfort. He sagged against Tiny, letting the smaller man take the full brunt of his weight as his knees gave way –

And as Tiny staggered under his weight, Cullen tucked his chin in and slammed his head forward, smashing the crown of his head against the other man’s unprotected face. There was a satisfying crunch as Cullen’s hard skull connected with the mage’s nose, bone breaking under the impact, and Tiny went down in a tangle of robes and limbs and a sudden spray of blood.

Cullen felt a faint itching against his skin that signalled the advent of spell-casting from the kid, and he reacted on instinct and nearly two decades’ worth of training. The Templar Silence that descended upon the younger mage was weak – certainly far weaker than it would have been had Cullen still been taking lyrium – but it was more than enough to cancel the young man’s spell. Cullen’s veins burned with the effort, his body instinctively reaching for the lyrium that _was not there_ as he followed the Silence up with a Cleanse to dispel any magical effects either mage may have had on them.

Before the boy could cry out for assistance – Tiny was down for the count, choking on his own blood – Cullen lashed out with his fists, ignoring the fresh pain that shot up his arm when his right hand impacted with the boy’s face. The boy dropped, not unconscious but the fight effectively knocked out of him as he hit the ground.

Cullen didn’t stop to think, just turned heel and ran in the opposite direction from the campfire. His entire body screamed with pain and his lungs burned but he forced himself to move as quickly as possible, no idea where he was going, just driven by the need to _get away._ He made for the treeline, the dense forest beyond the Storm Coast’s shores, struggling desperately to call to mind a map of the region.

Branches tore at him, tangling in his shirt and trousers as leaves struck his face. He knew he was being too noisy but he was too clumsy and too much in pain to make any effort at stealth.

The forest was dark, the thick canopy overhead combining with the cloudy night to make it nigh impossible for him to see where he was going. Had he been less desperate Cullen might have considered his escape foolish, but so long as he could put distance between himself and the apostates he would be happy, even if that led to him tumbling off a cliff or running into a den of bears – _anything_ was better than what the Venatori had planned for him. Suicide was a sin in the Maker’s eyes, but Cullen did not actively seek his own death, and if death _should_ result from his actions then surely it was better than succumbing to red lyrium or letting the Venatori’s pet demon learn enough about him to replace him. Cullen was desperate, and he was fevered and injured, and his flight into darkness was the first glimmer of hope he’d felt since being caught up in the Venatori’s blood magic.

The toe of Cullen’s boot snagged on an exposed root and he went sprawling, landing with jarring force at the base of a tree trunk, the breath knocked out of him. Every effort to catch his breath again resulted in a dreadful burst of coughing, until he had both arms wrapped around his torso as though that would keep him from hacking up a lung or feeling as though his ribs might break loose from his chest. A powerful feeling of exhaustion swept over him, every ache and injury clamouring for attention, the wounds on his back protesting even the tiniest amount of movement on his part.

As Cullen struggled to catch his breath two dark shapes loomed up before him, bent and twisted bodies moving slowly until they stood silently over him. He blinked away tears of exhaustion and frustration to stare up at the pair of mouldering corpses, the scent of decay strong in the air. Another wave of exhaustion struck him and he realized, with a dull sense of dismay, that the two creatures standing over him were shambling corpses: dead bodies possessed by demons of Sloth. The weariness he felt - while almost certainly exacerbated by his physical condition - wasn’t natural and was, instead,a result of the shambling corpses’ entropic magic.

“All that effort, and for what?” The Venatori – Evandrus – stalked out of the trees to come and stand between the two demon-possessed corpses, mage-light casting an eerie blue glow above his head. He looked down at Cullen with a mixture of contempt and mild amusement, as if Cullen were a mabari he was fond of but had a rather unfortunate tendency to piss on the rug, and as the mage gestured towards him Cullen felt the familiar pull of blood magic wrapping around him, forcing him to lie still as the shambling corpses came in closer. Behind Evandrus Cullen could see the kid, freckled face liberally smeared in blood, but there was no sign of Tiny. Cullen offered up a small prayer to the Maker that the man had choked to death on his own blood, or perhaps been killed by the Venatori for his incompetency in letting Cullen escape. It was blasphemous to wish such things, but Cullen was far beyond caring about _that_.

“Bring him,” the Venatori said, and the corpses bent down to drag Cullen to his feet. The blood mage could have forced Cullen to stand up and walk back to the camp, but instead he chose for his demon lackeys to grab the Commander by the arms and carry him between them. The entropic field projected by the two shambling corpses pulled at Cullen, combining with illness and injury and the Venatori’s control over his body to leave him weak and immobile, weariness dragging him down.

There was a crashing sound from behind them; Cullen didn’t have the energy – or the freedom of movement – to turn towards the noise, but a dark, malevolent chuckle told him exactly what it was he was hearing. His eyelids drooped, his head sagging, and as unconsciousness swam up to greet him he heard a low voice whisper inside his head:

_“Will this let me know you?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of the key plot points, for those who choose not to read this chapter due to the triggers: Cullen's injuries and illness are worsening. The Venatori mage has an Envy demon and intends for it to replace Cullen. Two mages attempt to abuse Cullen; he manages to escape (possibly killing one of them) but is recaptured by the Venatori and handed over to the Envy demon again. Also, Cullen needs a hug and a significant amount of therapy.
> 
> Note: "Orlesian disease" is my Thedas-analog for syphilis, otherwise known as "the French disease"


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much pointless faffing about, and then the Iron Bull does a stupid but heroic thing.

It was raining again.

This was no real surprise to the Iron Bull. The region was _named_ “the Storm Coast,” after all, and he thought he could count on one hand – the left, missing fingers and all – the number of times he’d seen actual sunlight while ranging there and still have fingers left over. The fact that it was raining was not shocking, but it was damned inconvenient, and the best he could hope for was that their enemies were as sodden and miserable as he and Solas were.

The cold and damp did absolutely nothing for his bum leg, and after hoofing it over rocky coastline and through overgrown brush his bad knee was a persistent dull throb that occasionally awakened to bursts of fiery agony. Solas, no longer forced to conserve mana, did what he could to ease Bull’s pain with healing magic, but the injury to his knee and ankle was over a decade old and well past the point where magical healing could do anything. What he _needed_ was a hot bath (fussy Tevinter altus lover optional, but definitely an added bonus) and to rest with his feet up; what he _got_ was a forced march in the rain followed by the occasional brief reprieve whenever they stopped to catch their breath. When they got back to Skyhold Bull fully expected to get an earful about proper self-care from Dorian, Krem and Stitches, and then he planned to grab Dorian and spend the better part of a week barricaded in his room at the top of the Herald’s Rest, recovering. He also intended to make sure the Commander – _when_ they got him back, because Bull refused to consider any alternatives – and the Inquisitor found themselves a nice secluded room somewhere, along with several bottles of Antivan brandy, an assortment of embrium-infused body oils and the best Tamassran-approved mental health advice Bull could pass on to Lyre. The Commander had needed a break _long_ before all this bullshit happened; once he was safely back in the arms of his lovely little elven mage Bull intended to ensure the man _took_ that break. Fuck, maybe Bull and Dorian would take Cullen and Lyre to Val Royeaux; the four of them could do a sort of double-date vacation- _thing._

Thinking about all the things he intended to do to Dorian (and suggest that Lyre do to Cullen) kept Bull from worrying about all the things that actually _were_ being done to Cullen. His mind kept flashing back to his last sight of the Commander: body frozen in the blood mage’s grip, face gone white with terror, and that awful mixture of panic and acceptance in the man’s honey-brown eyes, like he knew what was happening and was relieved to see Bull and Solas getting away while at the same time realizing just how horribly fucked _he_ was. Cullen was tough, no doubt about it, but the poor bastard had already been through so much …

It was early morning when the Iron Bull and Solas came upon the mages’ camp. Aside from the fact that the apostates were proving ridiculously easy to track – a large party of mages who apparently didn’t give a crap if they were being followed or not – Bull recognized a corpse tied to a wooden post off to one side. The dead man was fairly nondescript in appearance, but Bull remembered him as one of the mages who had dragged Cullen from one interrogation session to the next. Bull hadn’t cared for the hungry, avid way the man had looked at Cullen, and he was pleased to see him dead. It looked like his death had been slow, too: the broken nose wouldn’t have been fatal, but the dozens upon dozens of little cuts covering his body _had_ to have hurt. Bull couldn’t tell if the man had been killed in some blood magic ritual, or if his death was just meant to serve as a warning, like he’d fucked up in some huge way and had been punished for it. Even if he had been killed by his own people, Bull was pleased to see one of Cullen’s tormentors out of the picture.

The camp itself was the sort of slapdash affair one expected when a group of people with no clue how to rough it in the wilderness found themselves working together. The campfire was inexpertly thrown together and composed of logs that were too green and too damp to burn effectively, the campsite was too close to the shoreline – if the weather had gotten any worse they would have all had one _hell_ of a dunking – and all over there were signs that the apostates had no real clue what the fuck they were doing. Under different circumstances Bull might have found it amusing, but the knowledge that these assholes held his friend captive despite being so fucking inept just filled him with rage. He had to keep reminding himself that a lifetime of cloistered seclusion in a Circle tower did not prepare one for hiking and camping out in the woods, nor did incredible magical power necessarily equate to wilderness survival skills. Still, it was insulting. He was insulted.

As Bull moved through the camp searching for evidence that Cullen was still in the land of the living – the fact that his wasn’t the body strung up against the wooden post seemed like a positive sign – Solas sat cross-legged on a rock nearby, eyes closed as he napped or communed with the Fade or whatever it was he did. Solas hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the details; he’d just said that he was going to try to find out what had happened here, and had left it at that. Bull’s tolerance for magical bullshittery had improved in the time he’d known Dorian and Lyre, but at the end of the day he still found magic kind of creepy and was perfectly happy that Solas didn’t feel inclined to share. The elven mage was very much pulling his weight and that was what mattered, so far as Bull was concerned.

Bull was hunched over the dead mage, debating whether or not to cut the man down so that he could take a closer look at his injuries when Solas leapt down off of his rock and came over to join him. His clothes were stiff with saltwater-spray and the rain had left a fine sheen over his bald head and across his face, and there was a troubled look in his eyes.

“My friends were unwilling to come too close to the campsite,” he announced once he reached Bull’s side. His eyes swept across the camp and he frowned at the fire pit. “They observed from a distance, however, and what they saw was … disturbing.”

“Oh?” Bull raised an eyebrow in inquiry, ignoring the way it left water to pool in his scarred eye socket. He fucking hated not wearing his eye-patch.

“The Venatori commands a number of demons,” Solas continued, gaze still focused on the scorched logs and blackened ashes that was all that remained of the fire. “Hence the reason my friends did not wish to get too close; they stood the risk of becoming compelled themselves, and did not desire to join the Venatori or his demonic allies.”

Bull chose not to comment on Solas’s friends – spirits of the Fade that were only _marginally_ better than the demons the Venatori controlled, if only because they weren’t scrabbling to cross the Veil or actively trying to possess anybody. He still didn’t like any of that spirit-demon crap and he sure as shit wasn’t comfortable that Solas was communing with them, but if their intel could get the Commander back … well, he wasn’t so pig-headed that he’d turn down whatever help he could get. That didn’t mean he had to like it, though.

“So?” he said after a moment, straightening and wiping his hands off on his trousers. Mud and spindleweed clung to his grey skin, getting under his nails and in the cracked callouses of his palms. “We knew that asshole was a blood mage. Stands to reason he’d have demons working for him, right? Did your … friends” – Bull was proud that his hesitation was only momentary – “say what kinda demons? Or what they’re doing here?”

“No, they were not willing to get close enough to investigate. At least one of the demons was being used against the Commander, however. And more were called to guard the camp.”

Bull frowned. “Used … how?” _Used against the Commander_ could mean so many things – and not a single fucking one of them good. And the Iron Bull didn’t want to think about the idea of demons serving as guard-dogs. Living, breathing guards were bad enough, but demons? Demons didn’t need to sleep or eat or take piss-breaks. It seemed unlikely that they’d get distracted and wander off, either, especially not if they’d been specifically set to the task of keeping an eye on Cullen. He’d been hoping they would be able to pick off the mages one by one, whittle down their numbers before moving in to snag the Commander, but if the Venatori had demonic guardians keeping watch on the camp – and worse, watch over Cullen – that made things trickier. The apostates already had numbers on their side.

“I do not know,” Solas admitted, and Bull couldn’t tell whether his frustration came from having to acknowledge not knowing something, or from the knowledge that what he didn’t know was likely in the process of hurting one of their friends. He looked over at Bull, and the worry in his blue-grey eyes strongly suggested that it was the latter concern. “It was a powerful demon, however, and there are … a great many things such a one could be called upon to do.”

_“Great,”_ Bull growled, fighting the urge to kick the corpse at his feet. It would have been momentarily satisfying, but the strain the action would have put upon his already-aching knee wasn’t worth it in the long run. “He’s hurt, he’s captured, and he’s got fucking demons playing with him.”

Solas was silent for a moment, a pained expression on his face, then grudgingly he said, “He is also unwell.”

“What?”

A shrug; Solas fiddled with his jawbone necklace, frowning. “My friends expressed concern that, in addition to his injuries, Commander Cullen may also be sick, or in the process of becoming sick. One of my friends noted that he appeared feverish and was coughing a great deal. It could be the strain of his ordeal, or perhaps his wounds have become infected, but …”

“He was coughing before, back at the cave.” It was Bull’s turn to frown again. It was useless to speculate; there were so many things that could have gone wrong with him – for all the Bull knew, Cullen could’ve been fighting off an itty-bitty head-cold before they even left for the Storm Coast and now it was just getting worse. That seemed unlikely, however. “Shit.”

“Yes. Whatever the case, his resistances will be lowered. While I’ve little doubt the Commander will continue to fight against … whatever … his captors do to him, it’s simply a matter of time before he submits – or is killed in the process.”

As much as Bull’s Ben-Hassrath training made him inclined to agree with Solas - everyone broke, eventually; wasn’t that what he had been taught? - out loud he found himself protesting. “I dunno, the Commander is one stubborn son of a bitch. I think he’ll hold out longer than anyone suspects, regardless of how bad things are.”

Solas made no comment, choosing instead to drift around the campsite in what looked to Bull like a fairly aimless pattern but probably wasn’t; the mage never did anything _truly_ pointless, and most of the time he had several motivations on the go. Given how long Solas had been in communion with his spirit friends the Iron Bull had already picked through most of the campsite, but he watched the elf anyway in case the other man saw something Bull had missed. Elven eyes were keen, keener even than Qunari eyes, and Solas was more perceptive than most. If anyone was going to catch something Bull missed, it would be Solas.

“Y’know,” Bull said thoughtfully, his lone eye on Solas as the elf bent to poke the blade end of his staff at the remains of the fire pit, “I’ve always been meaning to ask – how come you and the Inquisitor never … y’know. Hooked up?”

Turning from the fire pit towards Bull, Solas frowned, pointy ears drooping slightly.

“The Inquisitor and I …?” he mused. His expression brightened. “Because we are both elves, you mean? I do not see you racing to pair yourself off with the first Qunari you see. Quite the opposite, in fact, if your relationship with Dorian is any indication. Traditional racial and culture enemies, are you not?”

Bull nodded, unbothered by Solas’s obvious attempt at misdirection - wasn’t that what _he_ was doing, trying to redirect his anxious mind away from thoughts of what might be happening to Cullen? - and a leer spread across his broad features. “I think we’ve already established that I’m a bit less discriminatory than you, yeah?”

“Don’t let Dorian hear you say that,” Solas replied, arching an eyebrow.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Solas waved off the comment. “Yes, yes, we’ve all heard quite enough about your sexual escapades, with or without a certain Tevinter enchanter.” He sighed and straightened, staring out towards the Waking Sea. “I appreciate Inquisitor Lavellan, make no mistake – she is a lovely woman and a credit to her race. I simply find her … well, truth be told, I find Lyre rather exhausting.”

“Exhausting?”

“Quite. Lyre is … young. Energetic. _Inquisitive,_ if you’ll pardon the pun.” Solas smiled faintly. “She puts me in mind of a kitten, always getting into things. Clan Lavellan will do well to make her their Keeper, once all of this is over. But for myself, she makes me feel old.”

“Old?” Bull smirked.

“Positively _ancient,”_ Solas agreed emphatically. He chuckled lightly and glanced at Bull. “To be honest, I am surprised _you_ have not pursued her yourself. I would have thought her your type.”

“Eh, I’m a spy – _everyone’s_ my type, if the situation demands it.” Bull exchanged serious nods with Solas, seeing that the other man understood. He shrugged. “Honestly? Yeah, when I first met her I thought she’d be good for a tumble, and it would’ve served the Qun for me to land a spot in her bed, permanent or otherwise.”

“And the reason you didn’t …?”

Bull shrugged again. “Cullen.”

“Cullen?” Solas repeated, sounding skeptical. When the Iron Bull turned to glare at him he waved him off, saying only, “Forgive me for saying so, Iron Bull, but when we first met you were very much an adherent of the Qun. I find it difficult to believe that the man you _were_ – Hissrad, Ben-Hassrath spy and loyal servant of the Qun – would choose to allow a … a lowly human _bas_ … to stand between yourself and your target.”

Grimacing at Solas’s words – the use of the Qunlat word for “thing,” which Qunari used to describe non-Qunari people – Bull turned away, glaring out at the waves crashing along the shoreline as if it was the sea that offended him, rather than the direction of their discussion. Solas wasn’t _wrong._ In the early days of his joining the Inquisition Bull had seriously considered finding ways to rid himself of Cullen as a contender for Lyre’s affections, not because he genuinely wanted her for himself but because she was his target. He had been sent from Orlais to spy on the Inquisition and to get close to the Inquisitor – you couldn’t get much closer than becoming the guy fucking her. But then he’d gotten to know Lyre, and Cullen, and he’d seen the two of them together and … Well, Hissrad had been an asshole, but the Iron Bull was not. At least, not _that_ much.

“They’re good together,” he said at last. “Good for each other. Being her friend got me in close enough. It didn’t seem right to fuck with what they have.”

Solas was silent for a moment. When Bull turned to look at him again he saw that the elf had a troubled yet thoughtful expression on his face, a look too soft and unfocused to have anything to do with the Commander’s current situation and the problem at hand. After a few heartbeats had passed where the only sounds came from the waves and the seagulls calling to each other overhead Solas curled both hands around his staff and leaned against it, his face pressed against the damp wood.

“It cannot last,” he said quietly. At Bull’s questioning look he clarified, “The Commander and the Inquisitor. Even if – _when_ – we find him and bring him back, he and Lyre will not be able to remain together.”

“Why not? They’re happy. They’re good for each other. Why fuck with that? ‘Cause Cullen’s not an elf? He’s not good enough for her?”

Solas frowned. “It is not so simple as that, but in a word: yes. Precisely.” He held up a hand, forestalling further protest from Bull, and continued, “If this is a casual dalliance between them then it is of no importance. They are both adults, welcome to take such comforts as they can, and no one will begrudge them their fun. But I do not believe the Commander is a man capable of frivolous affairs, nor do I believe the Inquisitor’s feelings for him are so prosaic. If their union should continue, however … the truth of the matter, Iron Bull, is that Lyre’s people will not approve. If they marry – worse, if she bears him children – she will be exiled from her clan. The Dalish do not tolerate outsiders, and their tolerance for human outsiders is even less. It will not matter that Inquisitor Lyre Lavellan is the saviour of Thedas, or that Commander Cullen Rutherford saved the world alongside her, or that he is a good man who loves her and who is loved by her in turn. What will matter to her people is that he is human and she is an elf, and Clan Lavellan will not forgive her that.

“Nor will the humans,” Solas went on, picking up steam. It was obvious to Bull that this was a topic the elf had given a considerable amount of thought to - and that he was angered by it, as he so frequently became angered whenever anything to do with Elves or Elven culture came up. As though the differences between Solas and other elves personally offended him. “Any child the Inquisitor bears will be elf-blooded. It may look human and under different circumstances may be passed off as such, but not with parentage such as theirs. Everyone will know who they are, who –and what – their child is. An elf-blooded child, in human society, is little better than an elf. You were at Halamshiral, you’ve seen the Exalted Plains, the Emerald Graves: you know what humans think of elves. The only saving grace will be that no one would dare show such contempt to the Herald of Andraste’s child – at least not to their face. Behind their back will be another matter entirely, I assure you.”

“You’ve … put a lot of thought into this,” Bull said, feeling a bit poleaxed. “They’re just fucking.”

Solas quirked an eyebrow at him. “Of course I have put thought into this, Iron Bull. And I do not believe the Commander was ever ‘ _just_ fucking’ the Inquisitor.”

“Yeah, well, you know what I believe?” Bull folded his arms across his massive chest, aware that it made him look defensive and not caring one whit. “I believe the two of them deserve their happiness. I believe that if Lyre wants her clan to take her back – human fuck-buddy or no, elf-blooded _imekari_ or no – she’ll fucking well _make_ them take her back, and him and the kiddies too. And if the world doesn’t work the way the two of them want it to, the Inquisitor and the Commander will fucking well change the world until it _does.”_

Solas sighed heavily, then gave the tiniest of shrugs, along with a faint smile. “You may well be right, my friend.”

Bull snorted. “Fucking right, I’m right.”

O o O o O

Less than an hour later the Iron Bull and Solas made their way along the Storm Coast’s shoreline, heading west towards Daerwin’s Mouth. The winds and rains were picking up again; Bull’s trousers were soaked through and plastered to his legs and he could scarcely feel the toes of his left foot. Solas periodically cast a warming spell that cut through the worst of the cold and damp and left Bull’s skin tingling with each pass. The apostates had made absolutely no effort to disguise their passing, and so it was ridiculously easy for Bull and Solas to track them. It had grown increasingly obvious that the mages were not returning to the cavern complex where they had held the three of them prisoner before, but were instead making their way to Daerwin’s Mouth, an old dwarven port that had briefly served as a base of operations for the Red Templars. So far as Bull was aware the Inquisition had cleared the port out and eradicated the Red Templars – but then, so far as Bull had been aware, the Storm Coast was supposed to have been secure. Clearly, what they thought they knew differed greatly from the reality of the situation.

“Is this where Calpernia was to have the red lyrium delivered?” Solas mused, crouching on a smooth slip of rocks that faced out over the entrance to the port. “Varric said the last time he was here with the Inquisitor, they destroyed the red lyrium deposits they found inside. I’m uncertain how quickly lyrium reforms - and even less certain about the red variant - but I would be surprised if their stores are already recovered. More could be shipped, however, although I thought this port had been secured?”

“Seems like a lot of things we thought have turned out to be untrue,” Bull grumbled. There was a flash of lightning overhead, brilliant white light briefly illuminating the rain-slicked rocks before him, and he automatically found himself counting _One Tamassran, two Tamassrans, three Tamassrans_ until he heard an answering crack of thunder. The storm was still some miles out but moving in fast.

Bull hadn’t been a part of the team that had cleared out Daerwin’s Mouth, but he’d listened to Varric Tethras going on about it in the Herald’s Rest. The dwarven writer had a serious hatred for all things relating to red lyrium and had insisted upon joining the Inquisitor’s crew on the Storm Coast just so that he could take part in destroying the damned stuff. The way Varric told it, the port had been teeming with Red Templars, red lyrium had practically been oozing out of every cave and crevasse, and it was only through the Inquisitor’s heroic and timely intervention that the Storm Coast had been saved. According to Blackwall, who had _also_ been there, the truth was more like they came across a handful of corrupted Templars and a few spikes of red lyrium, and then Lyre had sent in a team of engineers to rebuild the port. Real life was seldom as exciting as Varric’s storytelling led one to believe.

Bull was about to comment to that effect when Solas’s hand clamped around his bicep, turning him towards the entrance of the port. There, along the walkway that led into Daerwin’s Mouth, were the mages, led by the Venatori and a handful of demons.

Shuffling in the midst of the group, hands bound in front of him and with what looked to be a length of chain linking his ankles together, was Cullen.

From a distance it was difficult for Bull to gauge the Commander’s condition, but the man moved with the slow, stumbling gait of a drunkard, weaving from side to side until his course was corrected by one or both of the two mages who walked alongside him. He was clad only in his stained linen shirt and trousers, the fabric plastered to his skin with rain and saltwater; the white shirt – filthy though it was – stood out in stark contrast to the dark rock around him and the robes of the mages nearby. He tripped over something and would have fallen were it not for the mage beside him who caught his arm and hauled him upright again, and then he was back to stumbling along, slow and graceless.

Behind Cullen –

“Koslun’s _balls,”_ Bull muttered, catching sight of the sleek grey monstrosity lumbering in Cullen’s wake, “What the fuck is that?!”

The creature was tall but lanky, moving on four legs but … _wrong,_ somehow, its body folded in half so that its upper torso was parallel with its ass and legs. To Bull it almost looked like a circus performer, one of those acrobats who could bend themselves in half and walk around with their legs up over their shoulders – only this creature’s knees were more than a foot higher than its head and its forearms seemed more like clawed extensions rather than proper arms with hands. Its skin was a pale grey that glistened under the flashes of lightning, its head and arms and legs streaked with mottled dark red. It looked like something out of a nightmare, and it was following Cullen around.

“It is a demon!” Solas called back, to which – well, yeah, _obviously._ The elf continued, heedless of Bull’s consternation, “It is a creature of Envy. They’re very rare outside of the Fade!”

_That_ was an Envy demon? Bull had read Krem’s report from Therinfal Redoubt, where the Seekers of Truth had gone to ground after Lord Seeker Lucius had confronted the Inquisitor in Val Royeaux. The Inquisition had tasked Bull’s Chargers with clearing the fortress out and trying to find out what had happened to the Seekers and the rest of the Templar Order. By the time the Chargers had arrived the fortress had been abandoned – Samson had taken over the Templars, corrupting them with red lyrium and Corypheus’s offers of a new world order – but Krem had found signs of … _really weird shit._ Following up on the weirdness, at Leliana’s request, Krem and the Chargers managed to hunt down a demon out of Therinfal Redoubt; the report had said the damned thing impersonated Bull, Cassandra, even Krem at one point, and then they’d killed it. Afterwards it had been Solas who had informed them that what they had caught and killed had been an Envy demon, but the thing that Krem had described hadn’t looked anything like what Bull saw before him now, and the body they’d brought back with them had been too badly mangled and decomposed to give Bull any real idea of what it had originally looked like.

“Rare my big grey ass,” Bull growled, glaring down at the thing. “My boys killed one of those fuckers a few miles away from the Seeker fortress. Now you’re telling me there’s another one?”

Solas nodded tersely, finger pointing in the direction of the Venatori who walked at the head of the party. “I suspect this particular demon was deliberately summoned. To what end, though?”

“Nothin’ good.”

Bull squeezed through a gap in the rocks, mindful of his footing on the algae-and-saltwater-slick stone. He took care to keep to the shadows, trying to avoid being seen by the mages ahead of them. The mages, for the most part, seemed more concerned with making safe passage along the walkway than keeping an eye out for enemies, and even the demons paid no heed to anything outside of the narrow channel of rock they moved along. Waves from the Waking Sea crashed down on either side of the walkway, combining with the incessant rain and occasional crack of thunder to drown out any noises the Bull or Solas might have made. Bull thought this might be a good time to move in closer and try picking off the stragglers, and he thought it would’ve been handy to have Sera or Varric there armed with their bows.

Solas seemed to be of the same mind, for he swiftly followed Bull’s footsteps, keeping close to the massive Qunari. They both moved cautiously, careful not to slip on the wet rocks, timing their steps so that whenever they moved away from the shadows it wasn’t when the lightning lit up everything. Closer to the walkway Bull felt the spray of saltwater on his face and chest, stinging cold and wet over his skin, and although the path was more than wide enough to accommodate him he was painfully aware of how close the water was, how one wrong misstep would see him sliding off and into the sea. Up ahead the mages seemed to feel the same way; although there was more than enough room for them to walk several abreast, with the exception of Cullen and his guards the mages all moved in single file.

Bull was just estimating the distance between himself and the last of the mages – trying to decide if he could move in quickly enough to strike before they noticed him coming – when up ahead Cullen suddenly stumbled again. The Commander went down to one knee as the mages on either side of him tried to catch him and pull him upright again. The two mages collided with each other in their haste to grab onto their prisoner as Cullen – with a deftness that belied his earlier clumsy shuffling – slipped under their grasp. Then, before either mage could grab hold of him, he leaned to one side –

And toppled off the walkway into the crashing waves below.

All hell broke loose on the walkway, mages shouting to each other, people pointing at the water trying to see where the Commander had fallen in, panicked cries as they realized their captive was getting away. Or killing himself. Or possibly both, somehow.

Bull was aware of Solas cursing in Elvish behind him. He saw the Venatori pushing his way through the crowd, trying to get to where Cullen had been; at least one demon and two mages went into the water after being shoved out of the Venatori’s way, and then Bull saw the Rivaini man, the possible Viddathari spy, hustling over to join the Venatori.

Bull caught glimpse of a blond head rising up out of the waves. Cullen, hands still bound in front of him, desperately thrashed about to keep his head above water.

The Iron Bull didn’t stop to think. He just turned to Solas, shouted “ _You_ deal with the mages!” and, without a backward glance, dove into the Waking Sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Bull's discussion about Dalish mating habits - and the fact that Lyre would likely be exiled from her clan if she decided to stay with Cullen - stems from a conversation I had with a friend, and a brief blurb on the Dragon Age wiki. I don't think it's something the game actually touches on, but I found it interesting.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull struggles, Cullen breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic descriptions of injuries

_“KOSLUN’S MOTHERFUCKING HAIRY FUCKING BALLS, THIS WATER’S FUCKING **COLD**!!!”_

The Iron Bull’s furious bellow might have carried further had he not been in the midst of sputtering out about a half a gallon of frigid saltwater, but he doubted anyone could hear him over the storm, the crashing waves or their own frantic shouting. Once he got over how cold the water was – and what had he been expecting, really? – he took a few seconds to reorient himself before turning to face the cluster of mages darting about on the walkway. Sure enough, they were all staring out in horror towards the water, giving him a pretty solid idea of where the Commander was.

Bull had always been a strong swimmer. Growing up on Par Vollen, in and around the coastal city of Qunandar, he had spent much of his childhood in the water, splashing and paddling with the other _imekari_ in his age group, and some of his happier memories from Seheron involved mucking about in the Ventosus Straits with his crew. He knew how to swim and he had been trained in water rescue operations, learning what to do if a man fell overboard from a ship, how to save a person from drowning, what to do afterwards, all of that.

The Boeric Ocean in and around Par Vollen was nowhere near as utterly fucking _freezing_ as the Waking Sea along the Storm Coast.

Once his mind and body got over the initial shock he was able to push himself into action and, using the horrified mages’ expressions as his guide, he propelled himself towards where he had last seen Cullen. The Commander’s blond curls were not visible above the waves and the only thing thrashing about in the water was the Iron Bull and those who had been knocked off the walkway in the Venatori’s hasty search.

Bull ducked under the water and opened his eye, dismissing the twin stings of salt and cold. _There._ Not too far from where Bull had last seen him, Cullen was underwater and struggling, hands bound in front of him, the weight of the leg-irons dragging him down. He was lucky he wasn’t wearing his half-plate; that heavy armour would have sunk him in a heartbeat. His light-coloured hair, pale skin and white shirt stood out in the dark water, practically shining like a beacon against the black depths.

Swimming back up to the surface for a breath of air Bull heard shouts and screams coming from the walkway, and spared enough attention to see that Solas was making good on keeping the mages occupied. One of the demons – not the Envy demon, unfortunately, but one of the dead-looking ones – was frozen solid, and there were a number of twisting, jerking bodies on the walkway who had been taken down by the cautious use of a directed lightning spell. Bull couldn’t tell where Solas was, but from his limited vantage point he could tell that their enemies were equally unable to locate the elven mage, and that Solas’s efforts were interfering with their attempt to regain Cullen. Of the people in the water, it seemed that only Bull and Cullen _wanted_ to be there – and _want_ was such a _strong_ word – and the mages the Venatori had callously knocked in had already disappeared beneath the surface. Of the demons there was no sign; Bull held out hope that swimming was not that particular kind of demon’s strong suit.

Bull sliced through the water, strong arms propelling him towards the Commander. When he reached the last place he’d seen the man he had to dive back under and look around: Cullen had sunk further, his struggles having lost all coordination and strength. Bull popped up to the surface, drew in a great deep breath, and dove back under, cutting a straight line directly towards Cullen. Hooking one arm around the man’s chest Bull used his legs and his other arm to drag himself back to the surface, breaking out of the water with another huge gulp of air. There was no answering gasp from Cullen; the man lolled loose and unconscious in Bull’s grasp.

Bull hoped Solas could see them, that the elven apostate had some inkling of where the two of them were. Conversely, he hoped just as fiercely that the mages, demons and Viddathari could not see them, because he couldn’t swim Cullen to safety _and_ fight off enemy assailants at the same time. He wasn’t much one for praying but he quite sincerely hoped the Commander’s Maker and that Maker’s Bride were smiling down on Their hapless child. If anyone deserved a little divine intervention Bull thought it might be Cullen.

Bull flipped over onto his back, dragging Cullen’s dead weight upwards until the other man’s head was resting solidly against Bull’s chest and well out of the water. He couldn’t tell if Cullen was breathing or even if his heart was still beating, but Bull refused to believe the Commander was dead. Securing his grip on the other man’s torso, Bull grit his teeth and renewed his kicks with greater intensity. He didn’t so much pick a direction as he did swim away from the sounds of battle, hoping against hope that Solas could either hold his own against the rebel mages or that he had the good sense to make a break for it the moment the opportunity presented itself. Somewhere behind him Bull could see mountains rising up, dark against the stormy skies, and knew he was making for land.

Bull swam, Cullen pulled snug against him, the Commander’s curly head bouncing against Bull’s collarbone with every forceful kick. He managed to get his fingers against Cullen’s neck long enough to detect a faint pulse and felt a brief flicker of elation at the certainty that the other man wasn’t dead yet.

When Bull’s feet first kicked against rock he thought perhaps he’d swum up onto a sandbar, but a glance behind him revealed a stretch of white sand and behind that, dark pines and more mountainous terrain. Bull swam faster, buoyed by the knowledge that they had made it to dry land, until he was close enough to the shore to turn around and begin crawling, hauling Cullen along with him. When both men were finally completely free of the waves Bull collapsed, a sudden weakness going through him as overexertion won out over adrenaline and desperation. Beside him Cullen fell onto his back, pale and unmoving.

“Shit, kid, you better not be dead,” Bull grumbled, forcing himself onto his hands and knees so that he could peer down at the unconscious man. Up close and out of the water he could see dark bruises across Cullen’s too-pale face, their impromptu swim having washed away the blood and muck of their captivity and leaving him looking gaunt and battered. His eyes looked sunken in, the bruised-looking flesh of his eyelids appearing almost translucent and thin, and his lips were blue and cold. His pulse beat weak and thready, and it was clear he wasn’t breathing.

Just as Bull began positioning the Commander properly so that he could begin mouth-to-mouth, Cullen made a wretched choking sound and began coughing, water spilling forth from his mouth and nose. Bull quickly eased the man over onto his side to prevent him from swallowing the water again and simply held Cullen in place as he coughed and retched, puking up what looked to be half the Waking Sea. When Bull was certain the Commander was finished he settled the man into a more comfortable position, still resting on his side, and used the edge of Cullen’s tattered shirt to wipe his face clean of seawater and bloody vomit. Cullen made no response and gave no indication that he was even remotely conscious.

With Cullen indisposed – but, at least, not immediately at risk of dying, so far as Bull could tell – Bull sank back on his haunches and prepared to take stock of the other man’s injuries, but not before casting a quick look around to get his bearings. He wasn’t familiar with this particular stretch of the Storm Coast but its forest and mountains looked much the same as anywhere else he’d been in that region. With any luck he would be able to find a cave or other shelter to hole up in. He had no supplies and no water, but firewood and game wouldn’t be hard to come by and hopefully Solas would be able to find them to provide magical assistance. If the gods were truly smiling on them then perhaps Bull had managed to swim them closer to one of the other Inquisition camps, one that _hadn’t_ been ravaged by the enemy and would have supplies and scouts and horses to help them get back to Skyhold.

Turning back to Cullen, Bull rubbed a hand over his face as the futility of it all began to hit him. Never mind the cold and the near-drowning – which, fuck it, were certainly more than bad enough on their own – Cullen had a host of injuries in addition to the fever that was rapidly rearing its ugly head once more. Bull could see evidence that some effort had been made to treat the Commander’s wounds, but the healing was minimal, barely enough to keep the man alive long enough for him to be tortured again. His face was badly bruised and, to Bull’s increasing fury, there were rings of bruising around the other man’s neck, as though he’d been repeatedly throttled. More bruises, along with a number of uniform cuts suggesting those injuries were quite deliberate, decorated his torso in addition to the lash-marks on his back – lash-marks that, Bull was disgusted to note, had clearly been added to since they’d last seen each other. The bruising was dense and layered over his chest and abdomen, telling a tale of repeated and sustained beatings and warning of the likelihood of cracked or broken ribs – and worse, possible internal injuries that Bull could do nothing about. The fingers of Cullen’s right hand were badly misaligned and swollen, the leather straps had dug into the skin of his wrists – Bull managed to snap the thongs with his bare hands although the thin leather cut into his palms – and there were yet more cuts and bruises all over his arms. All that, and Bull hadn’t even had a chance to look below the belt. The Commander was a fucking mess. Frankly, Bull was amazed the stubborn son of a bitch was still alive.

_What the fuck do I do?_ Bull thought, fear and worry beginning to rise up now that the immediate adrenaline of the rescue was over and done with. He had no medical supplies. He wasn’t a mage and he couldn’t call upon spirits or the Fade to heal the other man. Bull was not a man much accustomed to feelings of helplessness, but _this_ … There was nothing for this. _He_ had nothing for this. Cullen was hurt, badly hurt, and the only thing the Iron Bull had managed to do was to delay the Commander’s death for just a little while longer. That wasn’t helping him, that was prolonging the man’s suffering.

“Fuck,” Bull said out loud, and then he forced himself to his feet. Right. All right. Cullen was hurt and Bull could do fuck-all for his injuries, but what he _could_ do was find shelter and keep the man comfortable. He wasn’t about to sit around on the beach and mope while Cullen’s condition worsened and their enemies inevitably came looking for them.

“All right, listen, kid,” Bull said, carrying Cullen a bit further up the beach and settling him – again on his side, his head pillowed under his largely uninjured left arm – in the small shelter of a felled tree trunk. “I’m gonna go see if I can find us a cave or somethin’ to hole up in. You just … You stay there and rest, and I’ll be back for you, all right?”

There was no response from Cullen, but Bull hadn’t been expecting one.

The Iron Bull sighed heavily and scrubbed his hands over his face, pretending he wasn’t exhausted straight down to his core.

“I’ll be back for you, Commander. Just … uh … Try not to die on me, boss.”

O o O o O

Cullen was dreaming. He had to be dreaming.

More than ten years had passed since the fall of the Ferelden Circle at Kinloch Hold, and yet Cullen’s memories of the place remained undimmed. More specifically, his memories of his cell at the top of the tower, surrounded by stone walls and a dimly-glowing purple barrier that, try as he might, he simply _could not_ break through. Beyond that barrier were the bodies of his fellow Templars, dead long enough that their faces were no longer recognizable, decomposition lending the air a ripe, rotten tang that barely overcame the stench of blood.

Some things had changed. _He_ had changed. For one thing, he seemed taller, his body more … filled out, more heavily muscled than he recalled himself being over a decade ago. He’d lost that lanky, unfinished look that was so common to tall boys just growing into manhood. For another he was no longer wearing his armour or the scraps of his armour left to him by the demons. Instead, he was clad in torn trousers and a heavily stained linen shirt, plain enough clothing that nonetheless stood out as unfamiliar and different from what he had worn as a young Templar. He was badly in need of a shave, but where once he’d worn his facial hair in a neatly-trimmed circle beard – he’d thought it would help him to look older, more authoritative (he’d been mistaken) – now his face was covered in a uniform scruff that suggested he’d developed a preference for going cleanshaven.

It was strange. In his dreams of Kinloch Hold, he was always his younger self: that traumatized nineteen-year-old who’d watched his friends die, one by one, and who’d spent an unknown number of days trapped as the plaything of demons and blood mages. Now, however, he was keenly aware that he was no young man scarcely out of boyhood, but rather the thirty-year-old he’d become, the Commander of the Inquisition’s army and the Inquisitor’s lover, an ex-Templar, current soldier and military strategist. No frightened, demon-haunted child, he, but a man grown.

But oh, how he hurt. That was new, too: the pain. To be fair, there had been pain in Kinloch Hold: pain, and hunger, and exhaustion – but that had all been overshadowed by terror and shame and guilt over being the last man standing. Now, however? Now the pain was all-encompassing. His back was on fire, there was something horribly wrong with his right hand, it hurt to breathe … there honestly didn’t seem to be a single thing that didn’t hurt, from the tips of his toes to the top of his unruly blond curls. Whatever other things he felt – fear, yes, and that familiar mixture of shame and guilt he remembered from the Ferelden Circle, yet somehow different and … _dirtier,_ as though he was tainted right down to his soul – the actual physical pain was far, far worse. He was by no means an expert, but he thought perhaps he might be dying.

He would have liked to have seen Lyre one last time, but he wasn’t so weak and selfish that he wanted her to be there with him, suffering alongside him.

Cullen heard footsteps from outside the purple barrier that kept him contained. He straightened, ignoring the pain that flared from his ribs and back at even the slightest movement, and waited. He was familiar with this part of the nightmare: this was when Lea Surana – or the demon masquerading as her – would show up, sweet-faced and pleading, offering him all sorts of promises the real Lea would _never_ have made. He felt a surge of annoyance; he didn’t feel like doing this anymore. He hurt too much and was far too exhausted for the nonsense that was his tortured memories of Kinloch _bloody_ Hold.

The figure that came to stand in front of the barrier wasn’t Lea Surana, however, and suddenly Cullen’s annoyance shattered, replaced by puzzlement and just the faintest hint of concern that perhaps now, more than a decade later, he was finally losing it.

“W- _Wynne_?”

She looked much the same as she had the last time he had seen her, when she had accompanied the Hero of Ferelden – the _real_ Lea Surana – and Alistair Theirin to the top of the tower after Uldred and his followers had taken over. A small, finely-made woman with grey hair fading to white and clear blue eyes, wearing the rich yellow robes of a Senior Enchanter. He’d always thought her rather grandmotherly-looking, kindly and old. She peered up at him through the flickering purple barrier, her expression one of sad fondness.

“Hello, dear boy,” she said, looking him over.

“You’re … you’re not real.” Cullen looked around, trying to see into the darkness behind her for some hint as to what this demon’s game would be. The demons were clever: clearly they were trying something new, although why they would choose to use Wynne’s form, out of all the people he had known over the years … He couldn’t even begin to imagine. “You’re dead. You died.”

“Oh, Cullen.” Wynne – or the demon wearing her face, Cullen reminded himself – shook her head, her gaze drifting over him, taking in the sight of him from head to toes. She seemed … genuinely sorrowful. Something about his appearance seemed to upset her, and it confused him. In all his memories of Kinloch, not once had the demons ever successfully feigned genuine concern. He didn’t know if that meant the demons were getting better at faking humanity, or if he truly was just _that_ pitiable in his present state. He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know. Wynne’s voice was soft, almost as though she wasn’t speaking to him but to herself. “What have they done to you, you poor thing?”

“Maker preserve me,” Cullen whispered, taking a step back. Compassion from a demon: he couldn’t bear it. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

“Oh, Cullen,” Wynne said again with another shake of her head. “ _None_ of this is real. You’re in the Fade. You’re dreaming, a fever dream. You’re sick and very badly hurt, but it’s all right – I’m here to help you.”

Cullen took another step away from the barrier, struggling to process this. In all the years he’d fought through his nightmares and memories of Kinloch Hold, not once had Wynne made an appearance despite the fact that she had actually _been_ there when he’d finally been rescued. His dreams had always revolved around the demons posing as Lea, or all the horrific ways he’d watched his fellow Templars being cut down, or other equally terrifying things. Wynne and Alistair and the real Lea had been his saviours and therefore had no place in his nightmares: they represented the _end_ of his suffering, they were never a _part_ of it. He couldn’t understand why Wynne – gentle, sweet, caring Wynne – should present herself to him now, why the demons would decide that _now,_ more than a decade later, they would use her form to torment him.

Cullen felt his knees give way and he dropped, unable to stop himself from crying out as the impact with the floor jarred every single aching bone in his body. He was too hot but he couldn’t stop shivering but he was drenched in sweat and … saltwater? Why were his clothes wet? He huddled on the stone floor, wanting to wrap his arms around himself but unable to move, his right hand completely useless at his side. His shirt rubbed against the wounds on his back, snagging on torn skin in a way that made his gorge rise. Maker’s breath, he was so tired. Everything hurt, he was tired, he was sick - he just wanted it all to _end_. Why was Wynne tormenting him now? Why couldn’t the demons just leave him alone?

He forced himself to look up at her. Wynne stood directly in front of the barrier, close enough that if she moved at all the skirt of her robes would brush against the shimmering purple field. Her expression remained that mixture of sorrow and affection, her blue eyes kind. He didn’t understand. None of this made sense.

She crouched down in front of him in a way the real Wynne would not have – it would have pained her knees to do so. Further proof she wasn’t real, but then … she had admitted as much, hadn’t she? She’d said he was dreaming.

“Why are you here, Wynne?” he asked her, his voice breaking. “You’re not real.”

“Dear boy,” she said gently. “You were such a sweet boy, back before the Circle fell. I always felt that you were one of the good ones. So polite and caring. Kinloch changed you, but I can see it, the way you’re clawing your way back to yourself. You think she makes you better, but it’s you. She helps – comforting, consoling, cajoling – but you’re the one doing the work, you’re the one who _wants_ to be better. At first you thought you would make yourself better for her, but now you’re becoming better to _be better._ You’re a good boy, Cullen. You were always such a good boy.”

Something about the way Wynne spoke reminded Cullen of … something. Some _one._ He tried to remember but the memories flitted away from him. He was tired and it hurt to breathe and he didn’t have the energy to spend on swimming through old memories.

_Swimming._ He had been swimming, hadn’t he? Maker, why would he remember that?

Out loud he said, “I don’t understand.”

Wynne smiled at him and raised her hands, gnarled fingers fluttering in some strange, arcane pattern. After a moment the purple barrier flickered and died, leaving nothing between the two of them. Cullen felt a brief pang of fear – there was nothing preventing her from coming into his cell now, nothing to keep him safe from whatever she was – but it subsided under the weight of Wynne’s kind, gentle smile and reassuring voice. He wanted to invite her in but instinct warned him against doing so: for all that she hadn’t chosen one of the familiar forms of his nightmares, this Wynne _had_ to be another demon, come to tempt him, offering him kindness and compassion instead of the tainted perversion of all his deepest, darkest fantasies. Somehow that was almost worse; over the years Cullen had grown desensitized to seeing his boyish infatuation corrupted, but even the man more than a decade removed from Kinloch Hold was susceptible to compassion. Until Cassandra Pentaghast had pulled him out of the Gallows by telling him she needed him for her Inquisition – until that Inquisition led him into Lyre Lavellan’s warm embrace and the friendship of her strange inner circle – Cullen’s life had been rather short on kindness and empathy. Even the Templars at Greenfell Chantry, where he’d been sent to recover from Kinloch (recover, or to be hidden away lest his night terrors and panic attacks and deep, seething anger give anyone the wrong _impression_ about the Templar Order), had kept their distance, urging him to toughen up and get over what had happened to him. In Cullen’s experience, moments of genuine comfort and caring had been few and far between.

Somewhere in the vast and dark distance a deep voice cried out _“Don’t do this to me, kid!”_ as sudden pain – the brunt thudding pain of impact, rather than the fiery ache of cracked ribs and damaged lungs – flared up in Cullen’s chest. The pain continued, feeling much as though someone was repeatedly pounding on his sternum, and again in the distance a man’s voice rose up, rumbling something in the cadences of a prayer in a language Cullen did not understand.

Wynne’s calm, kindly expression faded, replaced by something very resembling panic as she moved closer to Cullen. He tried to ward her off but a terrible lassitude was beginning to overcome him, and he slumped further to the ground.

“I’m not a demon, child,” Wynne said, speaking in low, urgent tones as she leaned over him. Her hands brushed his face; he tried to fight her off but found himself utterly unable to even so much as raise a finger in his own defense. “I was sent here by a mutual friend. I’m here to help you, dear boy, and I don’t need your permission for that.”

What Cullen meant to say was “No, don’t touch me” but what came out instead was “Who sent you?” as Wynne’s glowing hands dropped down to his chest. Her blue eyes shone with golden light and she smiled at him, all grandmotherly concern. He was too tired and too wounded to be afraid any longer. That sleepy lassitude was pulling him under, and brittle and exhausted as he was he didn’t have the strength to resist it. There was a threat here, but Cullen could no longer tell if the threat came from Wynne - or whatever _Wynne_ was - or something else entirely.

“He says that ‘your hurt touches her hurt, and that let him find you,’” she told him. Under Wynne’s glowing hands the pain in Cullen’s chest began to recede even as his panic increased; he knew, instinctively, that he needed to fight her off, that he shouldn’t be allowing this demon to touch him, but her words gave him pause.

“Cole?” he gasped out, incredulous. “ _Cole_ sent you?”

Wynne nodded, her eyes focused on his torso, her full lips pressed into a grim line. He saw anger there, mixed in with the sorrow; that anger was not directed at him, but at the monsters that had inflicted such damage upon him. “I knew him as Compassion. He says to tell you to hold on, we’ll find you, friends are coming, and to let me work.”

“Wait.” Cullen managed to get his good hand up, to curl his fingers around Wynne’s wrist. His grip was distressingly weak, loose fingers already slipping free. “If you can talk to Cole, you need to …” He gasped against a sudden burst of agony in his chest and it took him a few seconds to find breath enough to speak again, but this was important. “ _Envy._ You need to tell him … Warn him … He needs to … _Envy,_ not me. _Not_ me.”

“Hush, child, save your strength.” Cool fingers brushed his cheek in a soothing gesture. “I’m limited in what I can do for you here, and you’re so badly hurt, poor thing, but help _is_ on the way, you just need to hold on long enough for your friends to reach you.”

“ _Ngh,_ ” Cullen grunted, hearing again in the distance that deep masculine voice praying. “No … no, this is important, you need … You must tell Cole …”

This time, when unconsciousness rose up to greet Cullen, it wasn’t the darkness that carried him away but a soft and warm golden light.

O o O o O

The Iron Bull sagged back against the wall of the cave and scrubbed both hands over his face, his arms feeling like jelly and his nerves completely unsettled. He dropped his hands into his lap and pretended he didn’t notice the way they shook, muscle fatigue so great he doubted he could swat a fly much less lift his greataxe or get himself up off the ground. He had taken pleasure in injuring and killing hundreds of people through the years but he was never going to forget the sound of the Commander’s ribs crunching under the pressure of his hands as he’d tried to get the man’s heart started again. He would never forget the sensation, the way Cullen’s chest _gave_ under him. It didn’t matter that he’d known to expect it, it was still fucking unsettling.

Cullen was alive, and despite his best efforts the Iron Bull wasn’t entirely certain he’d had anything to do with it.

Bull had found a cave – really, more a rather large depression in the rocks facing the beach, but it was deep enough to provide some shelter from the wind and rain – and had carried Cullen over to it before heading off in search of firewood. He’d returned to find the man had stopped breathing; shortly after that, Cullen’s heart had also stopped. Mind filled with imagining the Inquisitor’s face when Bull told her that her lover had died, Bull immediately went through the steps that had been drilled into him as a young trainee: hand positioning on Cullen’s chest, mentally counting out the compressions as he pushed down (trying and failing to ignore the side effects of a giant Qunari performing chest compressions on an already-injured human, _crunch pop snap_ , sounds and sensations he would never ever forget), head tilt to open up the airway, breathe … In between breaths he had found himself reciting the Body Canto, not so much praying as trying to ground himself, the familiar Qunlat words falling off his tongue.

_Solitude is an illusion,_ Bull thought, watching the way the firelight shifted the shadows across the Commander’s pale face. Cullen was unconscious but breathing, his heartbeat slow and steady. Bull had checked. Repeatedly. _Alone in the darkness I was surrounded on all sides._

Cullen was alive. Bull had done what he could, performing the steps necessary towards coaxing the other man’s heart to beat and his lungs to breathe, but Cullen’s recovery seemed to have occurred on its own, suddenly and with little warning. And it may have been a trick of the firelight or his own exhausted and overtaxed mind, but Bull was sure that just when Cullen took his first laboured gasp there was a … flickering of golden light that spilled forth from his mouth. There and gone again, so fast Bull could convince himself he’d just imagined it.

It didn’t matter whether Bull was responsible or not. The Commander was alive and – wonder of all wonders – seemingly stable. Not that this seeming stability prevented the Iron Bull from watching him intently, lest his condition change abruptly.

_How much abundance the world carries,_ Bull continued, _if every fistful of sand is an eternity of mountains._ The Canto reminded him of how small yet vital his place was in the world; even if he wasn’t personally responsible for Cullen’s sudden return to the land of the living – for Bull was positive the man _had_ died, if only briefly – he was certainly responsible for the Commander’s continued well-being _now_. His huge hands, so competent and effective in taking a man apart, were now needed to keep this particular man alive. It was … disconcerting.

“ _Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it,_ ” Bull said out loud, speaking softly in Qunlat. He pushed himself up off the wall, mindful of his shaking arms, and gave the unconscious Commander another look-over. Although still gravely injured Cullen was nonetheless much improved, some of the dark bruises gone, wounds healed down to small silver scars, the bones of his chest somehow knitted back together. Bull knew he’d played no part in that; he was no mage and such healing was well beyond his meager skills. He was hard-pressed to explain what had happened, however. Perhaps the Maker really did smile down upon His faithful servant.

Catching sight of the lingering bruises ringing the Commander’s neck Bull frowned and thought that the Maker could stand to do a better fucking job.

Bull needed to get away, if only for a moment. Cullen no longer seemed on the verge of death; he thought it should be safe to leave the cave for a few minutes in search of food or fresh water or dry firewood. He staggered outside, left knee protesting – entire _body_ protesting, if he was being honest with himself – but instead of heading out into the forest to hunt or forage he found himself drifting towards the white sandy beach.

The rain had stopped, although Bull would not consider the day particularly pleasant. The skies were still overcast, the clouds dark enough to promise more storms on the horizon, and the air was chill. Away from the fire he found himself growing cold; his trousers were dry again but his leather harness left most of his chest exposed and there was a nip in the air. Further south that nip would mean frost or possibly even snow, but the season was wrong for it on the Storm Coast. Still, it was cold enough that he was uncomfortable, and he walked around bare-chested at Skyhold all the time.

Out in the Waking Sea the waves still tossed and turned, and the Iron Bull caught sight of a strange shape making its way towards the beach. He blinked, scrubbing water out of his good eye, and realized that he was staring out at a small wooden rowboat. The outline of the boat seemed blurry somehow; it took him, with his limited magical understanding, a few heartbeats to notice that it wasn’t a problem with his eye at all, but that the boat was surrounded by a sort of magic haze, some kind of fuzzy glowing blue barrier. Bull moved closer, waves lapping up over his boots, until he was close enough to see a figure huddled in the bottom of the boat, pale hands clenched to the sides. The glowing barrier encompassed the entire boat but seemed to double over the huddled form as though providing extra protection. Bull blinked again, the huddled form coming into focus: a man, curled up in the shelter of the boat, arms extended to provide balance. Recognition flooded Bull and he hurried out into the water, grabbing the boat’s prow and dragging it closer to shore. The boat scraped over the rocks until it was fully lodged on the beach. The blue barriers winked out of existence and the boat suddenly fell apart, collapsing into fragments of rotten wood, completely falling to brittle, broken pieces and dumping its lone passenger onto the rocks.

The pale bald elf managed to haul himself forward a few feet until he was safely out of the water; then he flipped over onto his back and stared, uncomprehendingly, up at the skies and the gobsmacked Qunari blinking down at him.

_“Fenedhis lasa,”_ Solas muttered. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed, utterly exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Di-Wynne intervention! :D
> 
> Wynne's dialogue with Cullen ( _"your hurt touches hers"_ ) is taken from party banter that (for me) occurred when my Inquisitor took the Iron Bull and Cole out to the Hissing Wastes. I reasoned that if Cole could hear the thoughts of Bull's old Tama because Bull's hurt touched hers, it would scarcely be any trouble at all for him to hear Cullen all the way from Skyhold; the distance between the Hissing Wastes and Par Vollen, where Bull's Tama would have been, is far, _far_ greater than the distance between Cole and the Inquisitor in Skyhold, and Cullen on the Storm Coast.
> 
> Also, I have not read _Dragon Age: Asunder_ so while I know that both Wynne and Cole are in it, I don't know how well they would have known each other (or if Wynne would have been able to remember him after everything was done). With that being said, I choose to believe that Wynne's Spirit of Faith knew Cole as the Spirit of Compassion; furthermore I choose to believe they were friends.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas plays healer, Iron Bull plays Tamassran. Cullen isn't thrilled with any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for torture, graphic descriptions of injuries, discussions of trauma (including rape), and people in really, really nasty head-spaces.

“—By paying us with fucking rice. _Rice!_ After that I always asked for gold coin upfront. You know what they say, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice … learn to make rice pudding.”

Bull laughed uproariously but his captive audience was silent. That was all right; while he wasn’t exactly talking for his own sake – much as Krem would’ve argued the Iron Bull loved to hear the sound of his own voice – as he was using his voice to drown out the silence. He had noticed, when he’d finally hauled Solas’s sorry ass over to where Cullen lay unconscious, that both men seemed to sleep better when Bull was talking. Dorian and Krem would both have claimed Bull was being delusional, but if him telling over-the-top stories touting the Chargers’ glories enabled his two unconscious friends to rest peacefully (or at least, _more_ peacefully), then fuck it, he’d talk until his voice was hoarse.

He’d lain them out together, side by side in the dirt, and for the first little while he’d settled himself around them, offering up what warmth he could. He’d managed to get a small fire going and had to get up periodically to tend to it; after a while his knee made it impossible for him to get back down without a struggle and so he’d taken to stretching whenever he fed the fire. It wasn’t quite the cozy cuddle-pile it had been back in their cell but it served to keep Solas and Cullen warm and it was reasonably comfortable.

Solas, so far as Bull could tell, was merely exhausted. The elf had regained consciousness long enough to ensure he was safe and then had resettled into a deep slumber, heightened when the Iron Bull starting sharing stories about the Chargers’ pre-Inquisition glory days. Bull had given the other man a quick once-over to be certain he was all right, and aside from some minor injuries he’d received back when they’d first been captured – largely healed by now – and a few small cuts and bruises, he seemed to be unhurt. Bull was by no means an expert on magic, but he suspected the elven mage had exhausted himself fighting off the apostates and demons, and then further compounded the situation by maneuvering a disintegrating boat across the Waking Sea. While the elf could certainly stand to sleep for about a month after eating a whole lot of sandwiches and cookies, Bull figured he would be all right if left to his own devices to recover; he didn’t need the Iron Bull hovering over him, fretting like a mabari bitch with only one pup.

Cullen, on the other hand … Cullen needed a lot more than sleep and pastries. His injuries – while somehow marginally improved from when he’d nearly died on Bull – were severe, and because he’d been in the custody of a pack of sadists he wasn’t hurt in a “fallen valiantly on the battlefield” sort of way, but rather in a “a bunch of fucked-up assholes wanted him to suffer” sort of way, which meant he had a lot of minor yet likely incredibly painful wounds along with what Bull was strongly beginning to suspect might be pneumonia combined with neglect and what the Iron Bull’s people called _Asala-taar,_ or “soul sickness.” He was a right mess, and until Solas woke up fully charged with mana or, ideally, they got their asses back to Skyhold, there wasn’t much Bull could do for him. Bull wasn’t a healer, and for all that Krem liked to joke about his mother-hen ways he wasn’t a proper Tamassran, either. He did what he could, but Cullen needed more help than Bull could offer.

Bull tossed another log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks and a fresh plume of smoke drifting upwards. Across the cave Cullen began tossing and turning, just a small bit of restlessness at first but Bull knew the drill and was unsurprised when the restlessness turned to soft whimpers and then the familiar chorus of pleading to be left alone. Bull didn’t know if Cullen was dreaming about the torture he’d suffered in Kinloch Hold, or if he was pleading at his latest tormentors; after a while it all sounded much the same, unfortunately. Before Bull could do or say anything to calm the man Solas reached out to rest a gentle hand on the Commander’s shoulder.

_“Lethallin.”_ Solas’s voice was rough with sleep. “Wake up. It’s just a dream – you are safe.”

Cullen sat bolt upright only to let out a choked-off cry when the movement pulled on every single injured muscle and bone in his abdomen. He didn’t lie back down, however, but rather remained sitting up, his good arm curled protectively around his middle, his shadowed eyes darting around as he tried to suss out where he was.

Bull gave him a friendly wave from across the wave, affecting nonchalance. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

Cullen startled, as if he’d somehow failed to notice the enormous Qunari squatting a few feet away from him, then responded with a half-hearted wave of his own. Solas, sitting up beside him, took this opportunity to peer at the other man, making no effort whatsoever to disguise the fact that he was studying the Commander quite intently.

“May I examine you, Commander?” Solas asked, gentling his voice. “My mana is still quite depleted, but I suspect I might be able to heal _some_ of your injuries. In particular I find your breathing troubles me, and you’ve become rather feverish.”

“I … um … Yes.” Cullen nodded awkwardly, rubbing his good hand over the back of his neck. Bull suspected in better lighting he would be able to see that the Commander was blushing, and not just from the bright spots of fever that reddened the apples of his cheeks. Cullen hated being the centre of attention, a situation no doubt compounded by the _reason_ they were both gazing at him so intently. His injuries were not just uncomfortable for him in the literal physical sense.

Cullen shifted as though to move to a position that would provide the elf greater access, but Solas quickly stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder and instead moved himself around until he had better light. The elf was no doubt feeling somewhat achy and clumsy after his mad dash across the Waking Sea, but he was still in far better condition than Cullen, and the less moving about Cullen had to do, the better. After peering intently into Cullen’s face – including looking in his eyes, ears and down his throat, which caused the Commander no end of consternation – Solas carefully helped the other man slip to free of his shirt, and then all three men fell silent as the full extent of Cullen’s injuries was revealed.

“Truth be told, _lethallin,_ this looks better than I was expecting,” Solas said softly, kindly. Cullen, facing away from Solas so that his whip-marked back was on display, was unable to see the elf’s face and how greatly Solas’s expression differed from his calm, quiet tone of voice. Solas sounded perfectly calm, but his expression was livid: stormy eyes flashing, thin lips pressed together in a grim line, even his pointed ears gone rigid with furious tension. Bull knew that were it not for his Ben-Hassrath training his own facial expression would reveal him to be every bit as incensed.

Bull had whipped men and women before. It wasn’t a tactic he resorted to often; as an interrogation tool he considered it next to useless, and it was little better as a disciplinary measure, for what purpose did it serve to render one of his soldiers incapable of working afterwards, or to leave them fearful and mistrusting of him for him being the one to wield the lash? In the bedroom with a well-worked-in flogger – leather smoother than cream and softer than a baby nug’s ass – and the proper use of watch-words and aftercare, _that_ was something _entirely_ different and his enjoyment of such games had never extended so far that he wanted to see his lovers broken before him. But he’d been trained to use the whip properly: how best to stand and position himself, how to grip and wield the lash, how to maintain his equipment to keep it supple and flexible. He’d never sought to cripple his target or to maim. And he’d never, _ever_ whipped anyone whose back wasn’t a smooth, blank canvas. Even if Cullen had been his most hated enemy he wouldn’t have whipped him after a beating, much less follow one brutal whipping up with a second – or third.

_How are you not dead?_ he wanted to ask, before remembering that terrifying instant when he’d felt certain Cullen _had_ died and the Iron Bull had been forced to get his heart and lungs working again. He still wasn’t sure _he_ was responsible for Cullen’s recovery.

But, looking Cullen over, the Iron Bull could see that Solas’s remark was not entirely idle or off-base. While still quite obviously painful, Cullen’s back looked more like several days had passed, days that had involved the proper application of poultices and salves and healing potions – and yet Bull knew for a fact that Cullen must have been whipped within the last day or so before tumbling head-first into the Waking Sea. Bull could see gradations in colouring and damage where one whipping had taken place over the injuries of the last, but the wounds were beginning to close and the bruising was already shading over into the greens and yellows of older injuries. If Bull hadn’t known better he would have sworn he was looking at something that had occurred more than a week ago. It all looked old, but it couldn’t _possibly_ be.

The damage still covered Cullen from neck to knees – or at least Bull assumed it did, as Cullen’s trousers hid the lashes Bull and Solas had seen before – with none of the uniform precision that Bull would have demonstrated had he been the one wielding the lash. Older marks were scored over by newer ones, the bite of the whip cutting through the pale skin and, in some places, even down into the muscle below. There were places the strikes had gone wild, cutting across the jut of Cullen’s shoulder or curling around his hip. From Bull’s angle he could tell that the whipping had been – largely – limited to Cullen’s back, but that didn’t mean the Commander’s front was undamaged. He’d been beaten before the whippings and, judging by the bruising, he’d suffered more beatings afterwards as well. The marks were less livid, however; Bull could no longer see the distinct pattern of a hobnailed boot over Cullen’s ribs, nor could he recognize individual bruises as they had all started to blend together, leaving behind a vivid pattern of violence across the Commander’s flesh.

There was a dense ring of bruising around Cullen’s neck, a mixture of hands-on throttling combined with rougher patches of rubbed skin caused by what Bull suspected may have been hemp or leather rope. His wrists bore similar markings, and inside the crook of one elbow Bull could see a string of almost delicate-looking cuts, as though someone had taken a knife to the same spot, over and over again. His right hand was a discoloured mess, with most of the fingers twisted at awkward angles that looked swollen and painful, the hand curled at the wrist and cupped against Cullen’s stomach protectively. Cullen’s face was a mess of contusions but they were, like the bruises on his torso, greenish-yellow in colour, old-looking; he had a nasty gash over one eye and his lower lip looked like it had been chewed on. Remembering the splash of blood that had covered Cullen’s chin and neck when he’d been returned to his cell that one time, it occurred to Bull that that was _exactly_ what had happened: Cullen had bit through his own lip in an effort to keep from crying out.

Bull and Solas exchanged glances, and Bull could tell that Solas was seeing the same thing he was seeing: Cullen’s injuries, horrible as they were, were further along in healing than the passage of time would have suggested. While Bull couldn’t know precisely when Cullen had sustained his more recent injuries, he did know how long it had been since they’d been trapped in that cell together and how long they’d been separated. That time barely stretched into days, and yet Cullen’s injuries were well on their way to being healed.

Cullen must have caught Bull’s expression, for he rubbed his good hand over the back of his neck and ducked his head.

“I thought I’d dreamt it,” he admitted, staring down at his battered torso. “Or … perhaps I _did_ dream it, and somehow the dream carried over from the Fade.” He turned to glance over his shoulder at Solas, wincing only slightly as that motion pulled at his back. “You would know better than I. There was a woman …”

“A woman?” Solas repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Please don’t say it was Andraste.”

Cullen didn’t so much laugh as he did let out a small huff of amusement, shaking his head. “No, not Andraste. Nor Divine Justinia, either. Instead it was … well.” He rubbed at the back of his neck again, looking confused and embarrassed. “It was a woman I knew from the Ferelden Circle – a Spirit-mage by the name of Wynne. We didn’t know each other particularly well but she was always kind to me.”

“And this woman … healed you? In the Fade?” asked Solas. Both his eyebrows were raised, but he looked intrigued rather than doubtful. Bull, for his part, was simply doing his best not to start grumbling and ranting about _fucking demons_ and _fucking Fade bullshit._

“I … I think so?” Cullen’s confusion deepened. “She said …” He drew in a deep breath, determined to plough through. “She said that Cole had asked her to come, to help me, and that … She said we’ll find you, that … my hurt touches her hurt, and this let him find me.”

“She barely knew you but you were connected enough for your hurt to lead her to you?” Bull asked, shaking his head.

“No, no, I’m not … I’m not explaining it right. It’s … I don’t rightly understand, but I think … I think Wynne was speaking of Lyre. I think … Cole could sense me because of Lyre, and because he could sense me through her – through her hurt – he could send Wynne to me.” The Commander made a small sound of annoyance and gave an aborted shrug, stopping himself before the gesture could cause him pain. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but … Perhaps it was just a dream.”

“Perhaps, and perhaps not.” Solas, sitting up on his haunches behind Cullen, raised his hands so that they were hovering over the marks on the Commander’s back, not quite touching him. “Your injuries do seem rather more advanced in healing than I might have expected. If this Wynne was a Spirit healer, or perhaps a spirit _of_ healing, she could have healed you in the Fade.”

Bull coughed uncomfortably. “Yeah, you did … uh … kinda die on me a little bit, back there.”

Both Cullen and Solas turned to stare at him, Cullen’s face going pale while Solas’s eyes went wide. Both men spoke at the same time: “I what?” “He died?”

“A little bit, yeah.” For some reason Bull felt strangely defensive about the whole thing, which was stupid – it’s not like it was _his_ fault, and besides, he’d done everything he could to bring Cullen back. How was he supposed to know some creepy-ass Fade-thing was taking care of the problem? “You kinda … stopped breathing. And your heart …” He grimaced, remembering the sound and sensation of Cullen’s ribs giving when he’d performed chest compression. “It … stopped.”

Cullen’s good hand flew up to his chest, then up to his mouth as his pale skin suddenly took on a greenish tinge and he began to retch. Solas caught him, supporting him as he bent over and gagged. The most he could manage was some dry heaves, however, his stomach long emptied of everything but bile. When he sat back, still supported by the elven mage, his breathing was fast and heavy and there was a glazed, panicky look in his eyes. The look Solas directed at the Iron Bull was one of aggravated disbelief.

“Peace, _da’len,”_ Solas said, glaring at Bull while awkwardly patting one of the few patches of skin on Cullen that was free of bruising – a small spot along his right shoulder. “You are safe now.”

“I remember,” Cullen whispered, the words muffled behind the hand he kept clenched over his mouth. His eyes were wide and glassy, and it was Bull he fixed his gaze upon. “I think I felt it, through my dreams. You … You got my heart beating again, didn’t you?”

Bull shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure that was me.” He gestured apologetically towards Cullen’s chest, wincing. “I did some chest compressions, yeah – probably busted a few of your ribs in the process, too – but you seemed to get better all on your own. It was … pretty fucking weird.”

The three of them fell silent, Cullen still obviously struggling to come to grips with this new information. Solas settled back on his haunches again, studying Cullen’s bare back with a carefully blank look on his face while fiddling with his jawbone necklace. He twisted the bit of bone along the leather cord, tugging it first in one direction, then the other, his fingers curled around a jut of blackened tooth. After a moment he sighed and squared his shoulders, his expression turning to one of determination.

“Commander,” he began, then started again with, “Cullen. With your permission, _lethallin,_ I would like to attempt to ease the worst of your injuries.”

Cullen stiffened. “With … magic?”

“I … yes, with magic.” Solas threw Bull a helpless look; Cullen’s fear of magic was well-known and, given his history, certainly well-founded, but it would be of no assistance here. Bull was sure his most recent experiences with the Venatori and apostates had heightened the other man’s pre-existing fears, as if that particular phobia needed help in getting worse. “We’ve no supplies. While I’m certain we can forage for elfroot or embrium – and spindleweed – we’ve nothing to bandage with and no materials for potion-making. It’s not my particular area of expertise and I’m still quite depleted, but I would ease your pain and discomfort.”

Cullen remained silent, worrying at his already-chewed lip. Solas glanced downwards, where Cullen’s battered hand was curled in his lap, then looked up at the Commander’s anxious face.

“I would need to reset these first,” the elf said softly, indicating Cullen’s dislocated fingers. “They’ve gone untended for too long; if I tried to heal them magically, I would fear they would heal as they are – twisted and misaligned.” He hesitated before adding, “As it is I worry you will lose some mobility.”

When Cullen’s silence persisted Bull and Solas exchanged another glance, neither of them making any effort to hide their concern from each other or from him. Bull shifted around until he and Cullen were facing each other, and he ducked his head, mindful of his horns, to peer up at the Commander’s face. In spite of his Ben-Hassrath training he found it difficult to read the expression there; Cullen’s face was blank, but studiously so, as though he was deliberately trying to mask whatever he was thinking or feeling.

“Cullen?” Bull said, placing a tentative hand on the Commander’s knee. Cullen looked up at him, blinking, and shook his head.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I can handle this.”

“Well … yeah. But we can still help, you know. We’d like to help, boss.”

Solas took a brief moment to inspect Cullen’s damaged fingers, his own expression carefully schooled into serene blankness. He was careful not to touch Cullen’s hand more than he had to, turning the wrist to study the various dislocations and swelling and bruising. After a few minutes had passed he sighed heavily and gave both Cullen and the Iron Bull an apologetic look.

“I suspect you will need to do this, Iron Bull,” he said, and at once Bull understood the apology.

If the idea of resetting Cullen’s dislocated fingers was upsetting to Bull – and it _was,_ because it was going to fucking hurt and Cullen was in enough pain already – he was careful not to show it. Cullen let him draw his hand into his lap, Bull’s fingers carefully cradling his, and Solas cleared his throat.

“If you would prefer,” the elf said hesitantly, “I can put you to sleep for this. It might be preferable.”

“No.” Cullen was firm. “It’s fine if you want to use magic to heal me” – there was no mistaking the lie in that; it was most definitely _not_ fine with Cullen but he was willing to go along with it if magic was necessary – “but I would remain conscious. I do not wish … I would prefer to retain control of myself, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Ah.” Solas nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Bull waited for Cullen to settle himself, still holding onto the other man’s hand, feeling Cullen’s pulse beat frantically fast but steady in his wrist. Desperate for something to distract himself from what they all knew was going to be an incredibly painful experience, Cullen stared down at the truncated joints of Bull’s left hand, frowning. “Tell me how this happened, how you lost these fingers.”

Bull returned the frown. “It’s not a pretty story, Cullen.”

“Was it torture?”

_Cold, hard hands pinning his wrist in place, forcing his fingers to uncurl away from his palm. A glint in the darkness caught his gaze: the flash of candlelight on the blade of a knife, glistening in the shadows. The edge was wickedly sharp. Hissrad grunted, fighting against the instinct to squirm, to try and pull away. His mouth was dry, the taste of iron strong on his tongue. He couldn’t slow down the thunderous pounding of his heart._

_“Just tell us when the next shipment of_ gaatlok _arrives, and this will all be over.” The ‘Vint’s voice was crisp, his accent thick._

_Hissrad pressed his lips together in a thin line. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blade come down. The flash of light on metal, the whistle of air. He heard the meaty thunk of metal slicing through skin before he felt the sudden searing, burning pain. He was dimly aware of the knife rising again, the threat obvious. How many fingers could he stand to lose before he broke?_

“Nah,” Bull lied easily. Cullen let out a sigh of relief. The Commander was no coward, but having his fingers reset would hurt, and he was already in a significant amount of pain. Bull could hear the other man’s raspy breaths, the wet rattle in his lungs that spoke of greater concerns than just an injured hand, regardless of what his spirit-friend Wynne had done for him already. Cullen needed healing and he needed a comforting distraction. Bull had no gift for the former, but the latter? He’d been called “Hissrad” – _liar_ – for a reason.

As Cullen listened with rapt, desperate attention Bull weaved an elaborate story of how he had lost the joints on his left hand – a story that didn’t involve Seheron, or a quiet-voiced Tevinter mage, or a dark shed on an island that smelled of _gaatlok_ and orange groves. The yarn Bull spun was far more amusing and lighthearted than the truth, and if Cullen saw through the Iron Bull’s deception he gave no indication, choosing instead to allow himself to be entertained by the lie.

Resetting the dislocated fingers of Cullen’s right hand was a grueling task made more difficult by Bull’s effort to maintain his cheerful storytelling, but he managed. They paused once so that Cullen could throw up and then resettle himself, and paused another time when Solas asked them to, although the elf gave no reason for requesting the break (Bull was grateful for it, but he couldn’t tell if Solas had made the request for Bull’s sake or for Cullen’s – perhaps it was a bit of both). When Bull was finally finished both he and Cullen were drenched in sweat, and the Commander was pale and shaking, but at least Cullen’s fingers lay flat and properly aligned once more.

After that Solas began the equally taxing job of using magic – in fits and starts, to accommodate his slowly-replenishing mana reserves – to heal the worst of the Commander’s injuries. He focused on Cullen’s hand first, determined to lessen the other man’s considerable suffering, and then once he had done all he could to repair the swollen and twisted joints and bones therein he moved on to the infection that plagued Cullen’s lungs. As Bull had suspected Cullen was suffering from pneumonia, no doubt the result of his earlier water-boarding combined with days of neglect and exposure to the elements (his recent dunking certainly hadn’t helped, either). When the bright spots of fever and glassy eyes finally faded Solas requested rest in order to regain his mana again before he could move on to the daunting task of treating the Commander’s ruined back.

Bull expected Solas to curl up by the fire and nap as a means of recovering his mana, but instead once the elf was confident Cullen was as comfortable as was reasonably expected he got up and ventured out of their little cave. When Bull made as if to follow him Solas waved him off, glancing meaningfully at Cullen – slumped and weary and staring blankly at the fire – before stepping out into the shadows. Bull sighed, scratching at an itch at the base of his horns, and settled down next to Cullen. The Commander started as if he’d forgotten the other man was there, turning towards Bull before resuming his dull and likely unseeing gazing at the flickering flames.

“How you doin’, kid?” Bull asked. He picked up a stick and used it to poke at the campfire, turning the logs over to give off more heat. Now that the hard work was done – or temporarily on hold until Solas could continue with the healing magic – it wouldn’t do for Cullen to be getting cold in his sweat-soaked trousers.

Cullen turned again to look at him, his face blank. This time it was a calculated blankness, a mask designed to hide whatever he was thinking and feeling.

“Which part did you wish to know about?” he inquired softly, a faint note of bitterness in his voice. “The part where everything hurts, the part where I’m half-convinced this is all just another nightmare and I’ll wake up with a demon staring at me again, or the part where I’m afraid to think about it too hard because I might just start screaming and never stop?” He let out a strangled, choked-off sound, his shoulders slumping, then winced and straightened himself again, tension through every line of his body. “Forgive me, that was unworthy of me. I’m very grateful for everything you and Solas have done for me. I shouldn’t snap at you just because I’m …”

“Hurting? Scared? Exhausted?” Bull suggested, before adding quietly and deliberately, “Ashamed?”

Cullen stiffened, then nodded slowly, letting out a heavy sigh. “Yes. All of that.”

Bull reached out and, careful to make certain Cullen was aware of his every move, rested his large hand on the other man’s shoulder, mindful of the bruising. When Cullen didn’t pull away or stiffen further or otherwise object to the contact between them Bull gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze and let his hand remain there.

“What happened to you,” Bull began, speaking slowly as he considered his words carefully, “Cullen, you know that wasn’t your fault, right? That you didn’t deserve any of that?”

Cullen’s shrug was desultory at best, dismissive at worst. He wouldn’t look at Bull.

“ _‘You can’t treat mages like people,’_ ” he said, voice soft and heavy. “ _‘They’re not like you and me.’_ I said that once, did you know? I uttered those _exact_ words to Garrett Hawke, years ago in Kirkwall. I thought, after everything that happened in Kinloch, that I was justified in my anger. It made it easy for me to turn a blind eye to what my Knight-Commander did, the things that happened under her watch. Under _my_ watch. I said those exact words and what’s worse is that I meant every last one of them.”

“Oh.” Bull shrugged, a far more expansive gesture than Cullen’s had been. “Well, then, I guess that makes it all right. Those apostates back there, the ones who beat you, who tortured you” – he pretended to ignore Cullen’s wince, deliberately glancing away when that wince turned into a full-fledged flinch as he continued, holding back no punches – “who _raped_ you, they had every right to do those things to you. Because the man you were, what? Almost a decade ago? Because _that_ man, who absolutely hasn’t changed in any way and absolutely hasn’t been spending the past few years doing everything in his power to try and fix things – that man deserved it? Am I getting that right, Commander?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Cullen bit out each word with deliberate harshness, knocking Bull’s hand away from his shoulder and turning to glare at the Qunari. He made as if to get up, perhaps to flee the cave entirely, but Bull caught his arm and none-too-gently forced him to remain sitting.

“Nope, we’re gonna talk,” Bull growled, releasing Cullen before the other man could start panicking about being trapped. He wagged a finger in Cullen’s face. “You think I don’t know a thing or two about changing? You think I haven’t said or done things I regret? _Vashedan,_ Cullen, you know what the Qun says about mages – I fucking believed all of that shit. I still have to remind myself not to flinch when Dorian does something flashy, or when Ma’am drops lightning down on the heads of our enemies in a fight – and I know for a fact that they’re on our side. Every day I think about shit I would do differently if I still answered to the Qun. Secrets I would put in my reports, weaknesses I’ve observed, pressure points I could manipulate to better serve the Qun. _Every. Fucking. Day._ But the man I am now looks back at who I was – looks back at Hissrad and thinks, _Shit, I was a fucking idiot._ Hissrad would never have fallen for some flashy ‘Vint mage. _Hissrad_ would never have chosen the Chargers over an alliance with the Qun. _Hissrad_ would never have made the choice to follow some tiny little elven mage into the Fade just because I trusted her to get us out of there again. I changed. People change. People grow. They grow the fuck up, Cullen. _You_ grew the fuck up. You’re not that same traumatized kid out of Kinloch any more than I’m still Hissrad of the Ben-Hassrath.”

Cullen blinked at him, dumbfounded. Throughout Bull’s tirade he’d just sat there, looking poleaxed, his face pale and tight with lines of pain and exhaustion. At first, when Bull had started ranting at him, he’d looked disbelieving, even scornful, but slowly, gradually that disbelief had faded. Bull couldn’t have identified what emotion he saw on Cullen’s face by the time he finished speaking, but he thought perhaps the other man looked pensive.

“Well.” Cullen opened and closed his mouth a few times, then let out a quiet chuckle, more a tired huff of amusement than a full-on laugh. “You’re perhaps not wrong about the ‘kid’ part, but traumatized … I think we both know the truth of that.”

“You didn’t deserve it, Cullen,” Bull told him firmly, ignoring his comment. “You _don’t_ deserve it.”

“ _Fenedhis,_ ” snapped Solas, returning to the cave and standing over both of them, his hands on his hips. He looked at Cullen. “ _You_ should never have been sent to Kirkwall. And _you_ ” – he glared at Bull – “should never have been sent undercover as Tal-Vashoth in Orlais. The fact that either one of you is still standing, never mind that you’re both still reasonably hale and sane, is a testament to your own strength of character. That you were both put into the field when you were clearly unfit is a testament to how much both the Chantry and the Qun use up and spit out their own people. You’re such kindred spirits it amazes me to see, and _I’ve_ walked the Fade. You’re also both clearly mad and you’re making it nigh on impossible for me to concentrate with all this blathering.”

“I thought you said we were both ‘reasonably hale and sane,’” Bull quoted him, tone mild. Beside him Cullen snickered, the sound of it a balm to Bull’s tense nerves.

“The key word there was _reasonably,_ Iron Bull. _Reasonably._ I ought to have said _questionably._ ”

Solas shook his head, moving past them both to dump a pile of wet, drooping leaves onto the smooth surface of a nearby rock. Bull glanced at the leaves, recognizing sprigs of elfroot and embrium, as well as some other bits and bobs he couldn’t immediately name but could theorize the use of. Healing herbs, most likely, which in absence of actual potions and proper medical supplies would certainly be useful. Better than nothing, at least.

“While I’m willing to concede that this discussion is necessary, perhaps even laudable, I have some misgivings about the timing,” the elf went on, squatting down next to the rock and his foraged plants. He began sorting through the leaves, separating them into small, neat piles. “Commander, I would like to begin work on healing your back, and after that we all should rest. Even you, Bull,” he said, pointing a finger in the Iron Bull’s direction. “Self-flagellation can wait until after we’ve all had more than a few minutes’ restless sleep, I should think.

“Perhaps,” he added, sounding almost mischievous, “it might even wait until after Iron Bull and I have hunted something edible down for dinner. Although regrettably I suspect we will be determining whether or not dragonling meets that criteria.”

“Dragonlings?” Cullen repeated. Bull’s eye lit up.

“Yes,” Solas said with a nod. “I suspect I know where we’ve come to shore, and it’s not part of the mainland. I believe we’re on Dragon Island.”

Bull chortled. Cullen blinked.

“We’re _where?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the abrupt ending but it was starting to get a little long and the next part doesn't promise to be any shorter.
> 
> Again, I haven't played Dragon Age II, but I've read enough about it to know that DAII Cullen was an ass. While I'm absolutely not suggesting he deserves what he gets, I can understand why _he_ might feel a bit differently. Bull and Solas are here to set him straight.
> 
> Oh, and _Asala-taar_ is Qunlat for "soul sickness," otherwise known as PTSD. According to the wiki it's pretty common among survivors of Seheron, and I think it stands to reason that post-Kinloch, post-Kirkwall Cullen Rutherford suffers from it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crumpet, having woken up on the angst-riddled side of the bed, unloads said angst upon her readership.
> 
> Cullen and the Iron Bull have a much-needed conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for rape, torture and unhealthy thought processes. If rape is a trigger for you _please_ skip over the opening italicized section (see the end-notes for a more spoiler-filled explanation of what happens); the rest of the chapter does also deal with this subject matter however it is something discussed rather than overtly described. It is also worth noting that the opinions of certain characters *cough* _Cullen_ *cough* are not necessarily shared by the author.

_He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the whipping post._

_He’d never been whipped before. As a young Templar recruit the subject was little more than a footnote in his training, mentioned briefly as a possible disciplinary measure for troublesome circumstances that didn’t warrant Tranquility – in the case of a wayward mage – or, if the subject was a fellow Templar, exile from the Order. While it came up from time to time in the Ferelden Circle it was considered a second-to-last resort, and he was such a green novice that that sort of unpleasant task would not have been set to him but was instead consigned to his more-experienced superiors within the Order. He witnessed two whippings when he served at Kinloch Hold; in both instances the mage involved was a known troublemaker and Cullen had felt their punishment just, if harsh; in both instances the mages had gone on to join Uldred, further demonstrating to Cullen that they were deserving of the harshest measures. At Kirkwall Knight-Commander Meredith favoured other methods of disciplining both wayward mages and miscreant Templars: she was quick to wield the branding iron against mages and equally quick to reduce lyrium rations against Templars. Whipping, she felt, was a half-measure at best. Cullen had felt the pain of lyrium withdrawal in Kirkwall – in a way it had prepared him for what was to come when he joined the Inquisition and gave up lyrium entirely, and so he felt a perverse measure of gratitude towards Meredith for that small instruction – but he had never felt the pain of the lash._

_He focused on the whipping post. For all his fear and trepidation about being whipped, it was far better than focusing on what was happening to him beforehand._

_Everything felt curiously detached, rather as though he were witnessing events unfold around him like a play while he sat safe and unaffected in the audience. At the same time, however, his mind seemed divided in two parts. In one part there was the whipping post: a thick measure of dense wood standing upright near the back of the cavern, the base of it sunken into the stone through some magical means to ensure it remained fastened and secure. (It wouldn’t do to have the post come toppling down - someone might get_ hurt.) _A cross-bar hung at about the midway point, with leather straps attached to either end; his wrists would be secured there, holding him fast so that he could neither flee nor protect himself. Both the wood and the leather looked new, and he wondered if he should feel flattered at the honour of being the first to be positioned there. His wrists would go in the straps, his face would be pressed against the wooden post, and his feet would be planted firmly on the ground. A curious part of him wondered whether or not the whip would break the skin - he thought it likely, given the nature of his tormentors - and whether his blood would collect on the stone at his feet. It would hurt, he knew that much; he didn’t know how badly, if the pain of it would unman him. If that – to see him taken apart like that – would be the apostates’ goal._

 _The other part of his mind was the part which observed the “play” before him, what one of the mages had laughingly referred to as the_ pre-whipping entertainment. _He saw himself, bent over a conveniently-sized slab of rock. Naked. His bare feet, planted on the ground much as he expected to plant them for his whipping. His arms splayed out before him, the fingers of his left hand clutching at the rock so hard his fingertips were bloody, his right hand already rendered useless. His cheek scraped over the harsh stone with every jostling thrust from the man behind him, his knees striking the slab every time he was forced forward. He saw all of this as it occurred, but none of it felt real. He was disconnected from the sensations of it all, his mind failing to connect the pain in his face and hands and front and knees and arse with what he saw before him. He’d seen himself naked often enough to recognize his own body, but it wasn’t_ him. _He wasn’t there. He wasn’t the man bent down face-first over a slab of rock while an angry apostate took revenge on him for the violation and murder of his sister. He was just an observer, and a distracted one at that – he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the whipping post and the fear and speculation of what would happen next._

 _It all just felt so unreal. This wasn’t_ happening. _This wasn’t happening_ to him. _Everything felt muted and distant. Even the pain felt very far away, more the idle and transient memory of pain than the actual experience of it. The only thing that was real was the whipping post, tall and sturdy and as yet unused. That was his future. His present was … vague. Meaningless. A misadventure befalling another unfortunate man._

_Cullen dimly recalled that he’d experienced this strangely disconnected state once before, in Kinloch Hold, towards the end. At the time he’d blamed his sense of unreality on the demons and their influence. They’d been powerful enough to create entirely new realities for the Templars in their thrall: he could remember one man lost in the delusion of the life he’d always wanted; another Templar had fancied himself a fennec, frolicking free and wild through the Hinterlands; a third was thrown back to an idealized memory of her childhood. When the demons came to Cullen they offered him that same fantasy – or rather, they’d offered him a variety of fantasies, and he’d accepted none of them. In the end it was the torture itself that had seemed fanciful, like something he’d read about rather than something he, personally, was experiencing. He’d floated, free and outside his own body, observing it all from a safe distance. He’d rejected the Hero of Ferelden out of hand when Lea Surana and her allies came to the rescue simply because he’d been so certain she was just another part of the illusion. It had taken days following his rescue for him to snap back to himself, and by then Lea was long gone and he was no longer entirely certain whose “self” was truly his own._

_The apostate – whose dead sister Cullen had never known, whose suffering Cullen had not had a hand in – finished with a last brutal thrust that slammed Cullen down against the unyielding rock and forced Cullen, violently, back inside himself, inside his own mind and reality, for all that he had no desire to return. Cullen was hauled upright by a solid grip on his shoulder. His knees threatened to give out. He was pulled, staggering, away from the slab and pushed in the direction of the whipping post. His knees_ did _give out then and he stumbled, striking his face against the wooden post. Behind him someone laughed, spiteful and cruel; had he still been capable of it he would have blushed, but as it was he simply felt empty and deadened, stripped of personage and reduced to a broken, mindless_ thing. _A hand came down hard on his bare arse, the slap of flesh on flesh sudden and loud in the close confines of the cave._

_He tried to send himself away again, to return to the safe position of observer rather than unwilling participant._

_He tried to send himself away. He failed._

O o O o O

The Iron Bull watched as, across the campfire, Cullen gave a long, slow blink and let out a soft gasp. He blinked a few more times, clearly struggling to come back from … wherever he’d gone.

Bull had seen shit like that before, on Seheron, and he knew that wherever Cullen’s mind had taken him it was no place pleasant. Bull had served on Seheron for almost ten years; the Ben-Hassrath typically recommended a maximum of two years of service on that blighted island because the drain on one’s mind and body and soul was too much. _Asala-taar_ – “soul sickness,” his people called it – when the mind endured too much pain and suffering and could no longer cope. He remembered, in the wake of his own re-education, reading a study about how one in every two soldiers on Seheron came down with the affliction. The symptoms differed from person to person, but Bull recognized it when he saw it, and the Commander was most definitely a fellow sufferer. He thought back to Solas’s earlier comment, about the Iron Bull and Cullen being kindred spirits, and Bull thought that the elf was somehow both very right and very wrong about that. They’d both been through the kinds of trauma that changed a person, reforged them from one being into another, and they’d both had their eyes rather violently forced open about the realities of the systems they served and how those systems ground their own people down until there was nothing left. At the same time, though, underneath it all Cullen was still like a knight out of legend, shining and noble and filled with idealism and honour – and Bull didn’t think he’d _ever_ been that, himself, not even when he’d still been a bright-eyed child known as Ashkaari, protecting the other children in his peer group and trying to “trick” his Tama into letting him play.

After Bull’s ordeal on Seheron he’d had the re-educators to course-correct him. He’d come away with renewed purpose and vigour, and he’d been sent on to Orlais to continue his work for the Ben-Hassrath. From what Bull could gather Cullen had had no such assistance; the Chantry did not so much aid its servants in recovery as it did shuffle them off where their soul-sickness couldn’t _infect_ others. As though being tortured by demons and blood mages was somehow _Cullen’s_ fault, the result of some failing or moment of dereliction of duty or carelessness, and Cullen had needed to be hidden away until he could be made presentable again – or rather, until he could _make himself_ presentable again. Being tucked away somewhere quiet and safe – and, presumably, far away from both mages and demons – was not the same thing as having others to support you and counsel you through your trauma.

Across the campfire Cullen blinked a few more times before rubbing a shaking hand over his face. When the hand was lowered he caught sight of Bull watching him and gave a little start, almost wincing under Bull’s scrutiny. Bull schooled his features to blankness, not wanting the Commander to mistake his anger towards the people who had just left Cullen to freefall into darkness for anger or judgment against Cullen himself.

“Back with us, kid?” Bull asked, voice quiet so as not to disturb Solas, who slumbered nearby. The elf had depleted the last of his magical reserves in healing Cullen, practically collapsing once the worst of Cullen’s injuries had been tended to. Bull had carried him over to the back wall of their tiny cave and made him comfortable by the fire. It was possible that Solas was exhausted enough to sleep through a rampaging herd of druffalo, but Bull didn’t want to risk it; the man needed his rest. Cullen wasn’t fully healed - he had protested against Solas depleting himself _that_ much on his behalf - but he was much improved, the pneumonia treated, his right hand mostly restored (as Solas had feared there was some lingering damage that may or may not repair itself in time), and the dreadful wounds on his back almost entirely gone. He was bruised and aching but no longer at risk of death, and Solas had most assuredly earned his rest.

“I … yes.” For a moment it was obvious that Cullen intended to dispute the notion that he’d been anywhere but there, but he gave it up as a bad job, knowing full well the Iron Bull would see through it.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Cullen gave Bull a level look, light from the campfire casting strange shadows over the planes of his face. He was badly in need of a shave – they all were – but the dark blond scruff coming in over his cheeks and jawline did little to hide the hollow gauntness he’d acquired during his captivity.

“You already know the answer to that,” he said quietly, sounding almost reproachful.

“Chantry doesn’t go in much for counseling, does it? Lemme guess – you’re supposed to lay all your problems at the Maker’s feet, and through diligent prayer and meditation He’ll sort you out?” Bull returned Cullen’s glare, faint disdain – again, clearly directed not at _Cullen,_ but at those people who should have been responsible for his welfare but who had left him hanging – in his voice. “Lots of ‘get over it’ and ‘suck it up, buttercup,’ and not a whole lotta advice on how to do that?”

There was a soft huff of amusement and Cullen shrugged, the movement made easier by the mostly-healed wounds on his back. He nodded grudgingly.

“I don’t see what purpose talking would serve,” he said, “save to make you think less of me. I want no one’s pity, Iron Bull. It … happened. I survived. I’ll get over it.” Then, so softly Bull almost missed it over the crackling of the fire, _“Maker knows, I did before.”_

“Sometimes it helps to talk about it,” Bull said, returning the shrug. “Helps to get it out there, y’know, instead of keeping it all locked down inside. A burden shared is a burden lessened, that sort of thing.”

Cullen rubbed his hand over his face again. At least he’d stopped trembling. When he looked at Bull his jaw was set, something defiant and angry in his expression. When he spoke again, his words were weapons, tossed at Bull in an obvious effort to punish the Qunari for pressing the issue.

“They used you and Solas to force my compliance,” he said, voice soft and flat, without affect. His gaze shifted to the campfire, unable or unwilling to meet Bull’s eye.

“Oh?” The word was carefully empty of anything but polite inquisitiveness. They might have been discussing the weather, not torture and rape.

Cullen nodded, still staring at the fire. “They couldn’t have used threats against you to make me talk – I’m sorry, Bull, but you and Solas are _not_ more important than the Inquisition, there’s nothing they could have said or threatened to do to make me betray our cause.”

“No apologies necessary there, Commander.” Bull shrugged again. Cullen’s loyalty and devotion to duty were not surprises to him. Anyone who had done their research on the Commander of the Inquisition would have known that he wouldn’t break under threats against his allies or himself. The only person he might have balked at leaving to such a fate would have been Lyre, and even in that case Bull could believe that Cullen would have held out if it weren’t for the fact that the Inquisitor was needed to close the Rifts and save Thedas. Cullen loved her, certainly, but he wouldn’t place love over duty; it was only Lyre’s own importance, as the bearer of the Anchor, that made it unthinkable to risk her life. Bull respected and understood that kind of loyalty.

“They talked about doing to you what the Qunari do to their mages,” Cullen went on, as if Bull hadn’t spoken. He continued to gaze at the campfire, but Bull suspected he wasn’t seeing the flames or the charred logs. “Lips sewn shut. Tongue cut out. They threatened to cut off your horns. Geld you.”

Bull hid his answering shudder. It was all too easy to imagine such a fate, even if the Qunari treatment of their Saarebas was somewhat exaggerated by the rebel apostates. Qunari mages only had their mouths sewn closed and their tongues cut out in extreme cases; instead, they were kept masked and chained, the responsibility of their Arvaarads, the Qunari equivalent of a Templar. The rest of the threat – cutting off Bull’s horns and (another repressed shudder) neutering him – wasn’t something that was done, at least not among the Qun. It was, however, exactly the sort of treatment a Qunari captive might expect in the Tevinter Imperium.

“They planned to sell you and Solas as slaves,” Cullen continued, confirming Bull’s suspicions. A former agent of the Ben-Hassrath and an elven mage would fetch a decent price in the slave markets of Tevinter. It would be a fate worse than death for Bull and Solas both. “If I didn’t … comply.”

It was Bull’s turn to scrub hands over his face. He felt a headache brewing, in that spot between his horns, and knew that it wasn’t the sort of pain Solas could heal with magic. It was bad enough to have seen Cullen’s injuries and to have known, in an abstract sort of way, what had happened to the other man. The knowledge that Cullen had ultimately submitted to this abuse to preserve Bull and Solas from torture themselves didn’t sit well with Bull. He was the protector. He wasn’t the one others protected.

Cullen laughed then, a strange, broken sound that bubbled up helplessly between his lips. Bull gave him a curious look. He opened and closed his mouth as if he meant to say something and then thought better of it, then, with another lost little laugh, he shook his head and sighed.

“Besides, it was hardly the first time I’ve …” And there Cullen fell silent again.

“Go on,” Bull said, motioning for him to continue.

Cullen’s shoulders straightened and he raised his chin in defiance. When he spoke, he sent the conversation in a different direction than Bull had expected: “Well. Back in Kirkwall … after … after everything. Hawke – the Champion, you know …”

“Yeah, I know Hawke.” _Knew_ Hawke. Bull nodded. Garrett Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, had died at Adamant. Or rather, he had been left behind in the Fade, covering the Inquisitor’s retreat, which amounted to much the same thing. Bull had known the man briefly and hadn’t particularly cared for him – he had been abrasive, bitter and angry, frequently lashing out at the people who fawned over him for the heroics he’d been a part of in Kirkwall. Bull’s feelings towards Hawke were largely negative, but at least the man had died honourably, protecting the people Bull cared about. “You and he …?”

“Yes,” Cullen said, without attempting to prevaricate or pretend as though he didn’t understand what Bull was implying. “Hawke’s lover – Anders – had been the mage responsible for destroying the chantry and leveling half the city. He … Hawke executed him and sided with the Templars. We … we fought together. Afterwards, we worked together, trying to rebuild the city – him as Viscount, myself as Knight-Commander, after Meredith … died. It … _Well._ Hawke had a lot of anger, I had a lot of guilt. It was a … mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Bull hid his wince, unsurprised to learn that Hawke had been an abusive asshole in Kirkwall just as he’d been an asshole at Skyhold before his death, but his voice was not entirely even when he said softly, “Sounds more like you mean _mutually destructive.”_

“Yes,” Cullen said again, nodding. “That, too. There were times when I thought he might kill me. Maker knows, I wouldn’t have stopped him. I felt it justified, after … well, after everything. I felt I deserved it.”

“You didn’t. You don’t.”

Cullen smiled bitterly, the look on his face suggesting he disagreed but didn’t feel like arguing the matter. “Yes, well … It … Our affair ended when Hawke disappeared and Cassandra arrived shortly afterwards – I didn’t realize at the time, but he left because he knew she was coming, that she intended to interrogate him about his role in the chantry’s destruction. She recruited me for the Inquisition. I didn’t see Hawke again until Varric dug him out to provide insight on the whole Corypheus situation. And then … Adamant. So, obviously, whatever happened between us is over, but … what I meant to say was … is … it’s … It’s hardly as though I was an innocent. Back … Back at the caverns, I mean, with … with the mages.”

Bull blinked, once more fighting to keep his expression level as realization dawned. Cullen was trying to tell him that he was fine because he hadn’t been a virgin when the mages had raped him. That it didn’t _matter,_ because he’d done something similar – as if rough hate-sex with an angry and violent Champion was the same thing as being tortured and violated and taken unwillingly. _Koslun’s balls._ Bull thought he might be sick.

“Cullen, with all due respect … that’s fucking bullshit, and I think you already know that.”

“I don’t –” Cullen began, but Bull ruthlessly quashed over whatever protests the other man intended to make, silencing him with an impatient gesture.

“If this had happened to literally _any other person_ you would be up in arms over the outrage,” Bull said, speaking before Cullen could open his mouth again. “You wouldn’t be sitting there trying to say that it’s fine for _me_ to get fucked because I’ve tumbled half the people in Skyhold. You wouldn’t think _I_ deserved it. Why the fuck would you think _you_ did? And I swear, if you try to feed me a line of crap about all the awful shit you did in Kirkwall, I will reach across this fire and shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll be using my toes as teeth.”

Cullen did a credible impression of a landed fish, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he just stared at Bull. Even with the fire casting shadows on his face Bull could see that the other man’s cheeks were bright red, a mixture of outrage and indignation and embarrassment. Beneath it all, though, there was something in Cullen’s eyes that said he rather desperately wanted Bull to convince him that he wasn’t the monster he seemed to think he was.

“Kirkwall was a clusterfuck,” Bull said, shrugging enormous shoulders. “I get it. You were an angry little shit and you made life miserable for a bunch of people who didn’t deserve it. Bad things happened on your watch. So fucking what?”

“I don’t … I … _What?”_

“So what?” Bull asked again. “You’re not the same asshole you were in Kirkwall. You know how I know that? Because we’re friends. Because Dorian likes you. And Madam Vivienne. And this smug shithead here.” Bull waved in the direction of the still-slumbering Solas. “Lyre loves you, and she’s not the kind of masochist who’d take a mage-hating, self-righteous, arrogant asshole to her bed just ‘cause he’s got a pretty face. Whatever it is we’re supposed to think or see when we look at you, we don’t. You’re Cullen. You’re our friend. You’re the Inquisition’s Commander, the Inquisitor’s lover - or special friend, or fuck-buddy, if you prefer - and you’ve come a long way from that man at Kirkwall. And even if you _hadn’t,_ that man you were, back in Kirkwall? _He_ didn’t deserve this, either. _Nobody does.”_

Across the campfire, snug up against the wall of the cave, Solas rolled over onto his back and sighed. His voice was filled with dry humour when he spoke: “Listen to the man, Commander. Righteous indignation has rendered him surprisingly wise and eloquent. It would be a shame to see all that go to waste.”

Bull snorted, rolling his eye. Cullen, still in something of a state of shock and confusion, nonetheless managed a quiet chuckle before turning away. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs as if hugging himself, and leaned his chin down onto his knee. The pose and the firelight playing across his face made him look surprisingly young and vulnerable in spite of the scruffy beard and fading bruises.

“I can’t do this, Bull,” he said, sounding almost surprised by his admission. Bull arched an eyebrow at him and he continued, falteringly, “I cannot see myself as the victim. I can’t think of what happened without wanting to start screaming like a madman about all of it. If I can tell myself that it’s not a big deal – that I deserved it, that it’s not as though I’ve not done it before – then I don’t have to think about it.”

“Then scream, Commander,” Solas murmured, voice soft and gentle. “We’ll not judge you for it.”

“I _can’t,”_ Cullen said again, his voice breaking on the words. “I can’t break down. Not again. I don’t know how to piece myself together.”

Bull pushed up off the ground and moved around the campfire before coming to sit next to Cullen. The Commander turned to him, blinking in confusion when Bull opened his arms in invitation.

“C’mere, kid,” Bull said, motioning for Cullen to close the distance between them. He would understand if Cullen didn’t want to be touched, but fuck, the Commander obviously needed it. He needed physical contact – non-sexual, purely platonic physical contact, the sort that Bull had grown up with, that he shared out so readily among his friends – the way plants needed light. Once again Bull was faced with the intense desire to rampage through Cullen’s past history and bludgeon every single person who ever hurt him or made him mistrust compassionate touch. Only two other people had ever brought out his mother-henning instincts as much as Cullen did: Dorian and Krem. Apparently the Chantry and the Templar Order were as fucked-up as Tevinter when it came to emotional intelligence. _Humans._

Cullen’s hesitancy was palpable, every line in his body going stiff and rigid as he fought against the urge to flee. After a long, long moment, however, he finally shuffled closer to Bull and let the large Qunari envelop him in a massive bear-hug, burying his face in Bull’s broad chest. Cupping one large hand over the back of Cullen’s curly head Bull cradled the other man in close, taking note of the hot tears that spilled from Cullen’s eyes onto the bare skin of Bull’s chest and the harsh, shuddering sobs that wracked the smaller man’s body. By human standards Cullen was tall, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled; in Bull’s arms he seemed little more than a child. Bull held him close, smiling faintly when he heard a quiet shifting as Solas moved in to join them, the elf’s slim hands coming up to carefully brush and pat the Commander’s back and the top of his head.

“For what it’s worth, Commander,” Solas said softly, “When I look at you I see a good man, with a kind and noble heart. Few others would choose to sacrifice themselves to spare others from suffering.”

Cullen’s sobbing made it difficult to understand him, but Bull thought he heard the other man say, “I don’t believe that.”

“I do,” Solas replied simply. His hand curled lightly around the back of the Commander’s neck, a gentle flare of magic sending soothing heat into the other man. “Rest, _lethallin._ We’ll protect you.”

Bull met Solas’s eyes over the curve of Cullen’s shoulder, seeing his own thoughts reflected in the elf’s face. _From yourself, if nothing else._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings, explained: The italicized scene at the beginning of the chapter is a flashback to events that occurred off-camera earlier in the story. This includes the described (but not graphically so, I don't think?) rape of Cullen by his mage captors, during which Cullen is dissociating rather strongly. (Dissociation itself being a potential trigger for some.) Connection is made between Cullen's experiences at Kinloch Hold and what happens to him with the rebel apostates. (If more warnings should apply please let me know and I'll make note of it.)
> 
> Apologies to fans of DAII's Hawke: I deliberately went out of my way to make him an asshole (taking every destructive choice he possibly could) so that I wouldn't feel guilty sacrificing him at Adamant. (I took him and Alistair. I couldn't leave Alistair behind, I'm sorry.) My Garrett Hawke was a complete and utter dick. I'm sorry.
> 
> This chapter went in ... rather a different direction than the one I'd planned. I'd meant to follow up on the whole "hey, we're on Dragon Island" thing, but Bull had other ideas, I guess. *shrugs* I don't know, I just work here.
> 
> ETA: After this I expect things to be a lot less dark. While I'm not the sort of writer who just blissfully ignores the trauma she's put the characters through - obviously there's shit these guys need to deal with, yeah? - I don't intend to belabor the issue. Badassery shall resume.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is plagued by bad dreams, Bull thinks thinky thoughts, and more conversations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for implied child abuse (very vague but there), threats of non-con and a discussion about suicide
> 
> Potential spoiler for end-game/Trespasser reveal, I guess?

As a child he’d always been prone to nightmares.

His mother had always said it was because he was such a deep thinker. He thought too much, she said (he worried too much, his father said, as if by telling Cullen not to worry that would somehow enable him to put a stop to it). His siblings were not so afflicted, for all that they were every bit as intelligent as their brother, and his mother claimed it was because Cullen thought too deeply on things. Where Mia saw that snow was coming, Cullen’s mind leapt to the concern that the crops would be ruined before harvest. Where Branson saw puppies, Cullen saw that their dam had died, and worried that they would have no milk and no one to care for them. Where Rosalie saw new children to play with, Cullen saw the bruises they tried to hide and fretted over ways to protect them. All four Rutherford children were bright and observant; it was only Cullen who was prone to taking note of the darker aspects of those observations. His mother said it was because he was sensitive; his father said it was because he was morbid.

As he’d grown older the nightmares faded, as they do for most children. They returned, briefly, when he first began formal training with the Templar Order, only to disappear again when his days took on their own familiar rhythm, different from Honnleath, but by no means unpleasant.

Kinloch Hold created a whole host of new nightmares for Cullen. Afterwards, in Greenfell, he’d woken up the other Templars and the staff with his night terrors. In Honnleath his mother had soothed him with lullabies; at Greenfell he was given blood lotus tea to force him to sleep (he no longer disturbed the other residents because, while the hallucinations were certainly much worse, he couldn’t wake up from them. Somehow this was seen as a positive by everyone but him). Early days in Kirkwall Samson had talked him through his nightmares, but the shame of disrupting the sleep of the other Gallows Templars taught Cullen to silence himself. The nightmares still happened, he simply stopped screaming and thrashing. Only Samson ever noticed or commented on the dark circles under Cullen’s eyes, and eventually Samson had problems of his own to worry about, leaving Cullen and his bad dreams forgotten.

He’d always been prone to nightmares, but the lyrium withdrawal made them worse. His friends liked to jest about the hole in his tower’s roof but in truth the cold air and open sky made it easier to ground himself: Kinloch Hold had been hot and stuffy, and towards the end the stench of blood and rot had been strong and cloying. Waking up from a dream about demons and twisted fantasies was made easier when the air smelled of snow and wood smoke rather than putrefying bodies, and when he could look up and see the starry night sky instead of stone and that dreaded magical barrier.

He wasn’t so far gone in love that he believed his nightmares ended with Lyre. He knew he still had them, even with her sleeping by his side. She simply made them _better,_ holding him, carding her fingers through his hair, humming or singing soft Dalish lullabies: she grounded him. There was nothing judgmental or pitying about her; she didn’t make him feel guilty or ashamed for having nightmares or for disturbing her rest. She was simply there, comforting and warm and just a little bit wild – but more importantly, she was _real._ With Lyre by his side Cullen could remind himself that he was no longer in Kinloch Hold, that he was no longer that terrified young man, that lone survivor. He was just Cullen. It was enough.

_The nightmare began as most of them did: the stone walls of the tower rising up around him, the purple barrier throwing off light and heat, the screams of the dying ringing in his ears and the scent of blood thick in the air._

_Cullen knelt facing the barrier, his hands folded neatly in his lap as he prayed to the Maker and to Andraste for guidance and protection and strength. The last of his fellow Templars had been dragged away; he could still hear the woman’s screams in his ears, her voice pleading not for mercy or freedom but simply for it all to end. “Kill me,” she’d begged, over and over again until the two words blended together into one keening cry. She’d been one of the first Templars he’d met upon arriving at the Ferelden Circle. She’d been kind to him – a sort of big sister and mentor. She was dead, and sooner or later he would follow her._

_This time it wasn’t a demon of Desire that came to him wearing Lea Surana’s face. Instead it was no demon at all but a mage: the apostate he’d thought of as Tiny, and the man wore his own face. Dark hair, pale skin, nondescript features common across Ferelden. He came and stood outside the barrier, sneering down at Cullen, specks of spittle flying as he recounted all the crimes the Templars had committed against him personally: the imprisonment, the abuse he’d suffered, the violation of his sister – which had happened to_ her, _not to Tiny, but which he took as a slight against himself, as though she were merely an extension of his will and being. Cullen had heard this litany before, many times while in Tiny’s custody, many more times in his nightmares. The ranting had taken on a rote quality._

_His memories of Kinloch were slightly fuzzy – the side effect of extended lyrium use, enhanced by the years he’d spent at Kirkwall as Meredith’s favourite and granted increased rations – but he was familiar with the timeline of events. There had been days between when the last of the Templars was taken away from him and when the demons and mages finally started physically coming through the barrier to torment him. It had not happened on the same day, he knew that for certain. And yet, in this version of the nightmare he could still hear that last Templar pleading_ (killmekillmekillme) _as Tiny passed through the glowing purple shield that prevented Cullen’s escape. Cullen, still on his knees in prayer, scooted backwards, away from that oily smile and those long, pinching fingers. The mage simply smirked at him and moved in closer, closing the distance easily, hands already working at the fastenings of his robe._

_“Bite me, and I’ll tear out the Qunari’s teeth before cutting out his tongue,” Tiny hissed, fingers clenched around Cullen’s jaw in an effort to force his mouth to open. Then-Cullen – the nineteen-year-old Cullen of Kinloch Hold – had not yet met the Iron Bull; Tiny’s threat should have held no weight. The Cullen trapped in nightmares, however, knew precisely who the apostate was referring to, and as the Templar screamed in the background_ (KILLMEKILLMEPLEASEMAKERKILLME) _Cullen allowed his lips to be forced apart, Tiny’s index finger pushing its way inside his mouth._

_A low growling sounded from outside the magical barrier. Tiny flinched and pulled away with such alacrity that Cullen reeled backwards; he would have fallen to the ground if he hadn’t managed to catch himself with one hand on the stone tiles. Behind Tiny he could see a dark shape moving about, pacing back and forth in front of the barrier. Tiny turned, slowly, the sneer on his face twisting to a look of panic when he caught sight of the massive black wolf behind him._

_There had been no wolves at Kinloch Hold._

_The wolf – almost the size of a draft horse – growled again, baring long white teeth._

_The barrier disappeared. Tiny screamed and tried to put Cullen between himself and the pacing beast. Its eyes were pale, storm-coloured; for one fleeting instant Cullen thought he saw three eyes instead of two, but then the nightmare stabilized and there were only two wolf-eyes staring at him. The wolf’s coat was black and shaggy, and there was something about the beast that seemed … familiar … to Cullen, as though he’d seen the wolf before – an illustration in a book, perhaps, or a painting._

_The wolf snarled, hackles raised, and suddenly the nightmare … shifted. Tiny disappeared like a puff of dark smoke and the dying Templar’s screams fell silent. The wolf stepped into Cullen’s prison and, with a great sigh, settled its massive bulk in front of him, its position reminiscent of a mabari guarding its master from harm. It turned its giant, shaggy head towards him, pale eyes blinking slowly._

SAFE, _it said to Cullen, in a voice as big as the sky._ REST. _It didn’t speak in the King’s Tongue, nor in any other language Cullen recognized, and yet he understood its words as clear as day._

_Cullen settled back onto his knees, hands once more folded neatly in his lap, and as he resumed praying the nightmare faded into nothingness._

O o O o O

The Iron Bull returned from his patrol of their surroundings with a smaller-sized dragonling slung over one shoulder and a fresh set of claw-marks decorating his left flank and arm. Injuries notwithstanding – the dragonling’s claws would leave some pretty badass scars – he was in a good mood. Their cave was reasonably safe and secure, the weather was currently pleasant (by Storm Coast standards, which meant that it wasn’t raining) and he’d acquired dinner. When he stepped into the cave and saw Solas and Cullen curled up together, sleeping, his good mood increased.

Solas was sat against the wall, head back, mouth slightly agape in a soft snore. Cullen lay on his side, head pillowed on the elf’s lap, the rest of his long body coiled up along the stone wall. Solas had his fingers in the Commander’s hair as if he’d drifted off while petting the other man. It was an unexpected and surprisingly sweet scene.

As Bull entered the cave – careful to keep his footsteps light in spite of his worsening limp – he saw Cullen blinking sleepily up at him, and was there to observe the exact moment when the Commander realized where he was and how he’d been resting. He blinked a few more times, clearly startled, but Bull was pleased to see Cullen relax again, apparently untroubled to find himself cuddling with Solas.

Cullen still looked like shit, Bull could see, but he wasn’t overly worried. The man needed more than a healthy cathartic cry and an hour’s rest before he recovered, even with the healing magic Solas had poured into him. His colour was better, however – less chalky pale and the fever-spots were gone from his cheeks – and he no longer held himself as though every single inch of his body pained him. He needed a shave, a bath, a good night’s (or week’s) sleep and a five-course meal with all the trimmings, but at least he didn’t seem like he was hovering on death’s door. Bull had been worried about leaving Cullen and Solas alone, but they needed something to eat and he had wanted to take in their surroundings, since he’d been pretty heavily focused on getting them someplace warm and dry, and less focused on where, exactly, that was.

Bull had some passing familiarity with Dragon Island, although he’d not had the opportunity to spend much time there before. There was a small dock north of Daerwin’s Mouth where one could take a boat out to the island, but as its sole occupants seemed to be dragonlings and a single High Dragon, it wasn’t a high priority on the list of ‘places to be cleared out by the Inquisition.’ Initial scouting reports had indicated that there weren’t any Rifts or demons there and that the Venatori and Red Templars had – thus far – chosen to leave the island alone. Given how many other places in Thedas were in need of the Inquisition’s assistance, there didn’t seem much point in advancing further, no matter how much Bull wanted to take a shot at the dragon. Granted, now that he, Cullen and Solas had washed up there, and given the introduction of apostate mages and Venatori, Bull suspected Dragon Island was about to become a hotbed of activity.

Unless Lyre Lavellan decided to burn the entire Storm Coast to ashes the moment she found out what had happened to her … to Cullen.

Bull didn’t know what to call the relationship between the Inquisitor and her military Commander. They were certainly more than fuck-buddies – and, if he was right at all about the kind of man Cullen was, Bull suspected they had always _been_ more long before they were actually, well, fucking – but almost certainly not married. Yet. (He was confident enough in his Ben-Hassrath skills to know there was no way he could’ve missed out on _that_ particular development.) Lovers, definitely. In love? He glanced over at Cullen, still resting his sleepy head on Solas’s lap, the elf’s fine fingers combing gently through his curls. Possibly. Bull thought it very likely that _Cullen_ was in love with _Lyre._ The Commander was precisely the sort of person who committed wholeheartedly and completely once he determined someone worthy of the commitment, and Lyre was certainly _that_. Bull didn’t know, of a certainty, if _Lyre_ was in love with _Cullen,_ but her affection for the Commander definitely went deeper than purely platonic friendship or casual bed-partners. Regardless of the depths of Lyre’s affection, the Inquisitor did not suffer her friends and allies to be harmed, and Bull thought it quite likely she would set the world on fire to protect or avenge Cullen Rutherford.

He almost – _almost_ – pitied the Venatori and his ignorant allies.

That pity evaporated the instant he considered Cullen, his injuries, and the fact that the rebel apostates had found themselves a perfect training dummy in the Commander. Between his desire to protect his friends and his conviction that he deserved every bit of abuse the mages could heap upon him, Cullen seemed almost designed to martyr himself for their amusement. His tearful admissions earlier were proof enough of that.

_Bull-fucking-shit,_ Bull thought, casting a glance in the Commander’s direction before changing course and carrying the dead dragonling back out of the cave. Koslun’s balls, he’d done a ton of bad things in the service of the Qun, and you didn’t see _him_ lining up for punishment, did you?

(Bull ignored the nagging voice that sounded like a strange mixture of Dorian and Cole, and that spoke of how he always threw himself head-first into every fight. How he put his body between his friends and their enemies. How he’d fight until he dropped – and then would drag himself back up to his feet and keep on fighting – if it meant keeping his friends safe. That wasn’t about punishment. That was about … It was about doing what was _right._ Not martyrdom, just … safe-guarding the important things in life.

The nagging voice laughed. Bull told Cole/Dorian to shut up. He knew what he was.)

Back outside Bull dropped the dead dragonling onto the ground where it landed with a meaty thud. He was out of practice at butchering meat; living at Skyhold was making him soft. Drawing out a dagger he’d managed to hang onto since escaping the caves he set about taking the dragonling apart, forcing his mind to focus on the task at hand rather than further worrying about Cullen and the man’s astonishing capacity for self-flagellation.

Butchery was messy but methodical work: it didn’t require a lot of brain power and it kept his hands busy. Rather than worrying about Cullen, however, he set his mind to daydreaming about Dorian and all the things he intended to do to and with his fussy little ‘Vint once they were safely back at Skyhold. Knowing Dorian, the first item on the agenda would be a proper bath. Despite commonly-held opinions about Qunari being uncouth savages the truth of the matter was that cleanliness was an important facet of the Qun – clean body, clean mind, that sort of thing – and while Bull wasn’t going to fuss and fret over how long he’d gone without bathing (swimming in ice-cold seas did _not_ count, nor did spending time in near-constant rainfall) the way his lover would, still, he’d be glad to be clean again. And dry, oh, _fuck,_ what he wouldn’t give to finally be rid of prune-wrinkled hands and the near-certainty that he was going to start growing mould on him somewhere. The moment he stepped foot inside the keep he was going to be begging Ambassador Josephine for the use of her over-sized copper tub. Bull could haul the water himself, Dorian could heat it with magic (one of the perks of tumbling a mage) and, if Bull was really lucky, he could sweet-talk Madam Vivienne into handing over some of that sweet-smelling flowery shit she got from Orlais. _Hmm, maybe don’t refer to Ma’am’s fragrant bath-whatchamajigits as ‘shit,’ there, Bull …_

A soft yet deliberate step behind him caught his attention, the brush of bare feet over the ground enough to warn him who was coming. Solas was quiet, but was making an effort not to be sneaky, no doubt fully aware of how poorly it would go for him to creep up on an ex-Ben-Hassrath agent unawares. The elf quickly moved into Bull’s line of sight, and the Iron Bull was relieved to see him looking less exhausted and much more alert than he’d been the last time he’d been conscious.

“I have been attempting to reach the Inquisitor or Cole through the Fade,” Solas said without preamble, his voice little more than a whisper. “Thus far I’ve not had any success, but it may simply be a matter of poor timing – it is possible neither one is sleeping at the moment.”

Bull nodded agreeably and wondered at the likelihood of either Lyre or Cole sleeping much at all. Cole normally wasn’t big on sleeping, so far as Bull had been able to tell – something to do with him being part-spirit or part-demon or whatever – and Bull was willing to bet his right eye that the Inquisitor wasn’t getting much rest lately, either. She’d be worrying no matter who was missing – she was a sweetheart that way, actually gave a shit about all of her people – but it being _Cullen_ would make it worse. And if Cole had picked up, through his friend spirit-Wynne, even the faintest inkling of what the Commander had gone through … Yeah, Bull didn’t see Lyre Lavellan getting much in the way of sleep. Not unless Leliana and Madam Vivienne were drugging her (he absolutely would not put that past either of them if they thought it was in the best interests of the Inquisition or its Inquisitor).

“The Commander said that his friend Wynne told him friends were coming,” Solas said. “It is unclear, however, whether she meant you and I, or that a larger rescue was in the works.”

Setting his knife down carefully, Bull wiped his hands off on his already-filthy pants and straightened up. His back gave a protesting twinge before something down in one of his lower vertebrae popped in a satisfying manner and then everything else sorted itself out.

“Do you think Cole knows where we are?” he asked carefully, not wanting to get his hopes up. It might be possible for him to swim off the coast of Dragon Island back to Daerwin’s Mouth – he had, after all, managed the trip in the opposite direction and had done so while hauling an unconscious human – but he didn’t think the currents were on his side. Solas had made the trip in a boat, and the cost of the journey had depleted his entire mana reserves _and_ completely destroyed the boat. And Cullen, while showing marked signs of improvement, was still injured. To top it all off, they had no idea how many enemies remained at Daerwin’s Mouth: it was possible they could survive the swim only to wind up surrounded by apostates and Venatori. _And demons,_ Bull’s mind reminded him uneasily. As much as he loathed the idea of sitting on his ass waiting for rescue, he didn’t see them having a whole lot of other options. Things were cold and wet and miserable on Dragon Island, but between the three of them they could keep themselves fed and safe. The odds were not in their favour should they try to leave.

“I am … uncertain,” the mage confessed, with a sour expression on his face that made it clear how little he liked the admission. “The Commander’s description of his conversation with Wynne was very vague. I do not think he remembers it well –”

“Maybe ‘cause he was dying at the time?”

Solas’s sour expression deepened, putting Bull in mind of one of those hairless cats that were popular in Tevinter and Nevarra, all fussy and ill-tempered. “Yes, quite. What I meant to say was simply that we do not have enough information to go on, and we cannot rest on the assumption that Cole _does_ know where we are. Thus, my efforts to contact him – or, indeed, any of our friends at Skyhold.”

Bull looked the other man over, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the pale cast to his skin. Even his ears were drooping, the delicate pointed tips practically flopping over. The mage was over-taxing himself: healing Cullen, setting up wards to keep their snug little cave secure, keeping the campfire lit, and now this Fade-walking … whatever. (Bull wanted to call it bullshit, but declined out of respect for what Solas was attempting to do for them. He’d call Solas’s Fade travels bullshit once they were safely back in Skyhold.)

“Should you be doing all this?” he asked, voicing his concerns as delicately as he could. Mages were a prickly lot, quick to get offended if you implied they might not be capable of something. (He won a lot of bets against Dorian just by goading him in that way.) “Not that we don’t appreciate it, but … I mean, shit, you’re only one man.”

“What other options do we have, Iron Bull?” Solas asked him. His sour expression lightened somewhat, turning into a surprisingly fond smile. “Unless you’ve developed magical powers of your own, we’ve no other recourse.”

Bull shrugged and began collecting up the butchered dragonling, suppressing a faint smile at the elf’s grimace of distaste.

“Let me take care of the fire,” he said, heading in the direction of the cave, spoils of the hunt in his arms. “And the cooking. Use as little magic as you can.”

“The Commander is still in need of –”

“The Commander will live,” Bull interrupted him, giving the elf a stern look. “He’s healing, right?”

“He is –” Solas began, then cut himself off, pressing his lips together in a thin line. He was silent for a moment, lost in thought until he finally gave a light shrug and sighed. “Yes. Physically, yes, his wounds are healing.”

The distinction was not lost on Bull. Solas had already done a lot to repair Cullen’s injuries; while he could stand to be healed magically a few more times at this point the best thing for him would be time. Get some good food into him – something that’d stick to his ribs, maybe fatten the man up a little – take a bath (Inquisitor optional, but in Bull’s opinion _highly recommended),_ let him sleep for a month, and then just take it easy _(ha!)_ for a while and he’d be right as rain again. _Physically._ Mentally? The man was a wreck, and why not? It wasn’t like the Commander had been the pinnacle of mental health _before_ his little stint as the personal whipping boy to a bunch of angry apostates. The shit he’d gone through while in their less-than-tender care had likely dredged up a whole fuck-ton of bad memories and bad associations, and the fact that Cullen actually _believed_ he deserved most of it? Yeah, that was gonna take more than a nap and a cry and a cuddle to fix. Hopefully the man would confide in someone. It didn’t have to be Bull, but fuck, he was willing. He knew what it was to carry around guilt for the shit he’d done.

“Well, all right, then,” Bull said, turning his mind away from things he couldn’t fix right that moment, and focusing instead on the problem at hand. Namely, Solas, and the fact that the elf was running on fumes. “Let Cullen heal naturally for now. Give his body time to catch up and recover, yeah?”

Solas nodded, somewhat grudgingly. “Yes.”

“Stop putting up the wards, too,” Bull said, holding one hand up to forestall the mage’s protests. “No, I know, I like havin’ ‘em, but we’re already setting watches. No point taxing yourself further, is there?”

“I would feel better knowing the wards are in place,” Solas said carefully. “I do not find it particularly taxing. I would wager the peace of mind I get from having them up serves to cancel out the energy I expend in doing so.”

Bull was willing to concede the point. Truth be told, as much as he disliked magic himself – and he was, at least, getting better; there was just a lot of traditional Qunari thought to work through first – he did feel a bit better knowing the wards were up. They were an early warning system that could potentially fry or freeze any enemies trying to cross them. He would never become so reliant upon magic that he would consider going without setting a proper watch detail, but the wards were a handy addition. Besides, Solas knew himself better than Bull ever could, and if the elf believed he wouldn’t be overtaxing himself by putting up magical protections around their campsite then Bull would be a fool to disregard his expertise.

He admitted as much, earning himself another smile.

“Is there anything we can do to make it more likely you can contact Cole or Lyre?” he asked, after a moment’s consideration.

Solas glanced at him, obviously hesitating. He licked his lips before saying cautiously, “No, I do not think so. I am already … making use of the Commander’s connection to the Inquisitor, but thus far his dreams are not … He is not dreaming of her.”

Bull narrowed his eye. “Does Cullen know you’re inside his dreams?”

“No.” Solas was quiet, but decidedly without remorse. “I do not believe he would appreciate my interference, nor would he welcome my having access to such private thoughts and feelings. With that being said … He needs help and he will not ask for it.”

“You can’t force someone to get help, Solas.”

Solas grimaced again. “It does us no favours for him to fall apart now. My meddling is non-intrusive; he does not know I am there. I will not disturb him.”

Remembering a conversation he and Solas had had a long, _long_ time ago, shortly after Bull and his Chargers had first joined up with the Inquisition, Bull let out a startled laugh. Solas blinked at him, caught between confusion and effrontery, but he waited for Bull to explain himself rather than immediately begin demanding answers. Bull waved him off.

“Nothin’,” he said, still chuckling. “It’s just … I remembered you asking me about the Ben-Hassrath, getting all pissy with me because we – _they_ – policed people’s thoughts as well as actions. Back before I was declared Tal-Vashoth. You accused me of making my people slaves.” He met Solas’s gaze and saw the dawning realization in the other man’s eyes - as well as how badly the notion unsettled the man. “Isn’t that what you’re doing right now? To Cullen? You’re policing his thoughts, worried that his thoughts might become his actions.”

“I …” Solas turned away, jaw set tightly. Something wet splashed across the top of his bald head and he flinched: it was beginning to rain again. _Of course it is. Piece of shit Storm Coast._ “It’s hardly the same thing. You weren’t concerned about your people hurting themselves; you were concerned about them betraying the Qun.”

“You worried Cullen’s gonna hurt himself?”

Solas started to nod, changed it to a head-shake, then switched back to a nod. The look he tossed Bull was one of confusion and worry.

“I do not know,” he said softly, again with the obvious discomfort of a man who greatly disliked not knowing things. Bull could relate. “He is … He seems rather … lost.”

“I’m not suicidal.”

The voice, drifting up from the entrance to the cave, caught them both by surprise although Bull hid his reaction better. Solas visibly startled, quickly masking the guilt that flickered across his face. More raindrops pattered down over their faces, and when some water got into Bull’s eye the world took on a blurry, hazy quality until he wiped it clear again.

“I’m _not,”_ Cullen said again, coming to stand just under the lip of rock that marked the opening into their safe-haven, just out of reach of the rain. His voice was soft and earnest, his expression open. “At least, no more so than usual. I’m not at risk of causing harm to myself, if that’s your concern.”

“It’s not,” Bull said confidently. Solas shot him an unreadable look.

Cullen wrapped both arms around his chest, hugging himself. Bull was pleased to note that the fingers of his right hand were as straight and hale-looking as those of his left: it seemed that resetting the joints and healing him had gone well and the dreadful injuries were on the mend.

“It is … I am … This” – Cullen gestured towards himself, fingers fluttering near his temple, arms falling to his sides again – “I’m accustomed to this. I was … melancholic as a child, prone to brooding and worry. It came and went in fits, seemed to worsen into adolescence. My mother said I was just sensitive; my father never seemed to know what to do with me, but my older sister Mia always knew how to draw me out of it. Joining the Templars seemed to help – it gave me purpose – but then Kinloch … made everything worse. Now I find that if I just focus on work and … and other distractions …” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, pulling at the scar that neatly bisected his upper lip, and his cheeks coloured, giving Bull a good idea of what (or rather, who) those _other distractions_ might be. “Well, as I said, I’m not suicidal and I’m not at risk of harming myself. You needn’t concern yourselves.”

“Commander,” Solas began, then stopped, suddenly uncertain.

“We’re not concerned,” Bull said, again with confidence.

“Suicide is a sin against the Maker,” Cullen told them earnestly, as if that explained everything, and perhaps to Cullen it did. Bull could kind of understand that: suicide wasn’t, strictly speaking, a _sin_ under the Qun, but it was considered a waste of resources and the destruction of Qun property. He wasn’t sure which viewpoint was worse. “Besides that, I would … I’m well aware of my duty to the Inquisition. I would never betray that, nor would I … nor could I do that to Lyre.” He smiled again, briefly, and Bull found the expression almost heartbreaking in its intensity and sincerity. “I know I am not yet at the point where I am capable of living for myself. I’m striving for that, but until I find that … that _self-motivation_ … it is enough that I have the Inquisition and … and Lyre … to set as a purpose. It is enough,” he repeated firmly.

“Commander,” Solas said, “I apologize for the intrusion, and for the presumption.”

This time it was Cullen who waved him off, shrugging slightly. “It is … I was going to say ‘it is all right,’ that I do not mind, but that is not entirely true. I would rather you didn’t intrude. I understand why you did, however, and so for that I forgive you. I could never live with myself if I hurt Lyre in such a fashion.” He laughed then, a surprised sound, as if caught by his own amusement at the foolishness of such a statement: that he could not live with himself if he hurt Lyre … by killing himself.

Bull cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the discussion and the direction it had gone in, and wondering just a little bit how he’d let it get away from him like that. He’d only meant to convince Solas to limit his magic use in order to preserve his energy; he’d never intended for the conversation to head down such a dark and personal path. He did make a mental note to keep a closer eye on Cullen, however; Solas was not the sort of man to worry needlessly, and if the mage had concerns about the Commander’s health, well, they merely echoed concerns the Bull was already feeling. It bothered him more than a little that Cullen was making Lyre part of the drive and focus that kept him getting up every day, but it didn’t particularly _surprise_ him. He was already well aware of the man’s devotion to the Inquisitor. At least Lyre herself didn’t seem like the sort to use that devotion against Cullen, but it bore watching. She could hurt him so easily if she was careless of his infatuation, and Cullen didn’t deserve that. More so, the Inquisition couldn’t afford that kind of divisiveness.

Just when things seemed bent on becoming awkward between the three of them the Iron Bull’s stomach rumbled loudly and rather pointedly, and two pairs of eyes flicked towards him. Cullen’s own stomach made a sympathetic response that was almost, but not quite, drowned out by the rain going from a drizzle to a downpour, and then suddenly all three of them were laughing, the tension in the air broken by their shared amusement and, apparently, equally shared hunger.

“Well,” Bull said, hefting the meat in his arms, “Let’s find out how tasty dragonling is, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, I headcanon Cullen as suffering from depression and anxiety, in addition to the obvious PTSD from Kinloch (exacerbated by Kirkwall and lyrium withdrawal). I envision it as something that comes and goes, and I see him as not yet being in a place where he can recognize all of his potential triggers (some - demons, blood magic, Kinloch Hold - are more obvious than others). I also think, given that his superiors sent him to _Kirkwall_ of all places, the Chantry is not particularly adept at treating mental health issues or providing compassionate care, and as such he is learning coping mechanisms on his own.
> 
> I'm not really sure how all this Fade crap and dreaming works, so I'm taking liberties with Solas's abilities for the sake of the narrative. I apologize that this might make Solas seem like an insensitive asshole, but his heart's in the right place.
> 
> Note: I'm going to be out of town until Mother's Day, so while I expect to find a lot of inspiration while I'm gone I don't think I'll have much chance for writing (and even less opportunity for posting updates). Apologies, but at least I'm not leaving things on too much of a cliffhanger, right?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More thinky thoughts and things get more complicated on Dragon Island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting! What was supposed to be a happy little visit with family turned into my mother requiring emergency surgery and my partner getting sick (sick enough that I was afraid I'd need to drag him to the ER). Everyone is fine now, more or less, but it's been stressful and writing was definitely not at the forefront of my mind. :P

_“Will this help me to know you? Will this let me_ be _you?”_

Cullen came awake with a start, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, the demon’s voice the last clinging vestiges of his nightmare. He could still feel its touch on his skin: a brush of twisted, claw-like fingers against his cheek and forehead, its warm, sulphuric breath pouring forth from a mouth with _far_ too many teeth. Slowly, quietly, he shifted into a sitting position, turning until he faced the campfire. He looked down at his arms, fully expecting to feel chains or hands or some other restraint around his wrists – he could still feel the restrictions there, coiled tightly, holding him down – but there was nothing, not even the faint line of bruising that would indicate the restraints had been there. He felt a similar pressure around his chest, like a thick, heavy band that wrapped around him; it made it difficult to catch his breath. The fact that none of it was real did little to alleviate his anxiety.

Across the campfire, just seated within the entrance to their cave, the Iron Bull kept watch while Solas slept nearby. Bull turned, casting a quick glance in Cullen’s direction, but paid the Commander no heed. Cullen felt ridiculous, torn between irritation that Bull didn’t appear to notice – or worse, was dismissing – his distress, and gratitude that the Qunari wasn’t making a big deal out of it. It was unlike Bull not to stick his nose into Cullen’s affairs, but perhaps after their most recent heart-to-heart conversations he no longer felt it was necessary, or he assumed Cullen would talk if he felt like talking. His irritation was made all the more ridiculous by the knowledge that even _were_ Bull to ask him if were all right, Cullen’s response would have been simple: _Nothing. Just a nightmare._

Bull didn’t ask. Instead his pale-eyed gaze drifted over Cullen until he was once more looking away, out the cave entrance. Cullen didn’t know whether to feel relieved that the mercenary chief wasn’t fussing over him or put out at being so readily ignored. He chose relief: he didn’t _want_ to talk about it. It was just strange that Bull was letting it go so easily.

Perhaps the Qunari had had enough of Cullen’s blubbering and self-pity. Cullen wouldn’t have blamed him.

Cullen forced himself to stare at the fire as he scrubbed both hands over his face. He was desperately in need of a shave (and a bath that didn’t involve either seawater or rainwater). His right hand ached, a dull throb that seemed to settle deep inside his bones, and he clenched his hand into a fist and then unclenched it again, taking some small satisfaction in the relative mobility he’d regained. He would need to exercise it regularly to ensure it continued healing, but it was already vastly improved from what it had been and he was no longer terrified by the possibility of having been left crippled. It was strange, this mixture of feelings inside: he felt dirty – contaminated and tainted – but it wasn’t entirely due to the several days’ worth of grime that had accumulated on his body, and at the same time he also felt leaps and bounds ahead of where he had been prior to throwing himself into the Waking Sea to escape his captors. Freedom, not to mention the healing Solas provided and the support of his friends, had done much to improve his outlook, but it was difficult to escape the tendrils of fear and shame that had wrapped themselves around him ever since the apostates had dragged him away to be tortured. It was hard to shake the long-held conviction that no matter how much he had changed over the years, he was still deserving of their punishment.

In an effort to distract himself from his nightmare and his circling worries Cullen let his mind drift to thoughts of Lyre and what she might be doing. He had not allowed himself to think of her while he was in the mages’ custody – his time in Kinloch had cautioned him against retreating to the comfort of fantasy while in the presence of demons and mages; it was all too easy for them to use such fantasies against him – but here, away from the apostates, he permitted himself the luxury of pleasant memories and idle curiosity. He was not so insecure as to believe she wouldn’t be worried; he knew that if Blackwall, Sera and Dorian had escaped the ambush – _pray to the Maker and to His Bride that they did,_ he thought, for the thousandth time since waking up in the apostates’ cavern – they would have returned to Skyhold to report what had happened and to muster assistance. Knowing Lyre she would be leading the charge. She wasn’t the sort to stay behind while her friends were in danger.

Lyre Lavellan was unlike anyone Cullen had ever known. It amused Leliana to tease him about having a “type,” since the former Bard had known of Cullen’s boyish infatuation with the Hero of Ferelden, but in truth Lyre and Lea Surana had little in common aside from the fact that both were elves, both were mages and both were women. Lea, when she’d been part of the Ferelden Circle, had been more mage than elf; she had, to the best of Cullen’s knowledge, been raised from infancy or early childhood in Kinloch Hold and knew little of her people’s culture. She had been small and slender and pale, with wispy blonde hair so light as to be almost white and silvery-blue eyes set in a delicate, heart-shaped face. “Ethereal” would have described her perfectly. She had toughened up somewhat by the time she and her companions had come to free the tower, but his memories of her – those that weren’t tarnished by what the demons had tormented him with – would always be of that graceful, fragile-seeming young woman he had known in Kinloch Hold.

Lyre, on the other hand, was very much an elf first and foremost. Dalish to the core and proud of it, a pride that had been the source of many discussions and arguments between herself, Sera, Solas and Cullen himself. (Cullen liked to think that his own involvement came from a place of ignorance and curiosity, rather than the loathing Sera felt or the pity Solas expressed towards elves in general and the Dalish in particular.) She was short, possibly shorter than Lea had been – Cullen had only his own memories to work with there and he knew he had grown somewhat since the Ferelden Circle – but no one would ever refer to Lyre as “frail” or “ethereal.” She was robust and vibrant and so full of energy that Cullen often found himself simultaneously exhausted and rejuvenated in her company. Lyre had nut-brown skin, her face decorated with the _vallaslin_ of her people, the vaguely bird-like tattoos that marked her as an adult of her clan and showed her particular reverence for Dirthamen, the elven god of secrets and knowledge. Her sable-dark hair was shaved down close to the scalp on one side and left loose and curling on the other; Cullen loved to run his fingers through the thick, silky-soft locks and over the rasp of dark stubble. Her eyes were a mutable hazel: sometimes more green, sometimes more golden, sometimes even closer to brown depending upon her mood, the lighting and what she was wearing. She was earthy and energetic and Cullen thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, but hers was a beauty grounded in strength and vibrancy, rather than the idealized version of beauty he remembered in Lea.

Lea had been a quiet little scholar, steeped in academia, with soft hands and a softer heart. Lyre ran around Skyhold on bare feet, told bawdy jokes and sang ribald songs in the tavern with Sera and Bull and the Chargers, and the reports of her activities across Thedas frequently made Cullen worry his heart would explode for worry for her, she was so reckless and adventurous and brave. No, if Cullen had a “type” it was not elves or mages or even _women,_ specifically: it was people who were strong and brave and self-sacrificing. He’d briefly allowed himself the illusion that Garrett Hawke was one such person – he had been the Champion of Kirkwall, after all, and much beloved in that City of Chains – but ultimately he had only been fooling himself. His infatuation with Lea had been just that: a youthful fantasy based upon an ideal rather than the reality. His relationship – if one could call it such – with Hawke had been self-delusion and a strong desire for penance; Hawke had been angry and grieving the loss of his lover, the mage who had destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry – who Hawke had been forced to execute for that crime, and Cullen had allowed himself to be a convenient outlet for the Champion’s dark passions. What Cullen had with Lyre was unlike either of those experiences, and he was immensely grateful for it. He had left Kirkwall with the determination to become a better man, and while he certainly wasn’t doing it for Lyre, it was equally certain that she encouraged it. She encouraged _him._

_“Will this let me know you?”_ The voice was a whisper in his ear, so close he could practically feel the creature’s breath on him again, and Cullen started, looking around with wide, frantic eyes. There was nothing: no sign of the demon, no suggestion – outside of what he had heard and felt – that it had ever been there. Solas slept on unawares and even the Iron Bull did not react to Cullen’s sudden panic. Cullen felt a small flicker of unease overriding his irritation that Bull seemed bent on ignoring him but he swiftly swallowed it down: surely, after everything Bull and Solas had done for him, they deserved the chance to not have to continue dealing with Cullen’s … issues. _Again._

Cullen looked down at his hands again, still feeling the pressure of restraints. For a brief moment it looked like – no, it was just a figment of his imagination, a flickering from the firelight, there was nothing moving underneath his skin, _Maker’s breath, Rutherford, get a grip!_ But for that brief moment he thought he could see the blood moving under his skin, twisting not in his veins, but rather into chains that coiled around his wrists. Chains of blood – how macabre! He lifted his hands, turning them over so he could look first at his palms, then at the back of his wrists: nothing. There was nothing there. And yet the feeling persisted, the sensation of something wrapping around his wrists and keeping him bound. The weight on his chest was still there as well, but just as with the strange feeling around his wrists when Cullen looked at himself he saw nothing save for the filthy linen shirt he’d been wearing for what felt like forever.

The fire caught his attention again, drawing him out of his self-contemplation to stare at the shifting, flickering flames. The crackling logs seemed almost like a whisper, a voice heard just on the very edge of hearing, the words unintelligible. Cullen’s hands settled in his lap. His nightmare had disturbed what had otherwise been a very restful sleep, and now that it was fading – or now that he found himself staring mindlessly into the campfire – he could feel sleep pulling at him again. His head nodded, his chin dropping down to his chest. His world seemed to shift sideways ever so slightly, the lingering elements of his nightmare clinging to him and casting a strange sense of unreality over everything.

The bands around his wrists and chest tightened. The flames beckoned. Beyond the campfire and its steady light the world seemed to drift away.

O o O o O

A sudden gasp from across the campfire pulled the Iron Bull’s attention away from his casual scan of the forest and beach just outside the cave. He turned to see Cullen sit up and stare morosely at the fire, then down at his hands, then back to the fire. Cullen’s gaze flickered towards him before returning swiftly to the fire, his hunched-over posture suggesting he was uncomfortable with Bull’s scrutiny.

“Hey, you all right?” Bull asked him, but Cullen remained silent, ignoring him. Bull huffed in annoyance but didn’t call to the other man again: no doubt Cullen was tired of him and Solas pestering him, constantly asking how he was feeling, if he needed anything, did he want to talk. He had to remind himself that the Commander wasn’t accustomed to people giving a shit about how he was doing, and that he was probably feeling more than a little overwhelmed with everything that had happened these past few days. If the man wanted to talk, he would talk; if he _didn’t_ want to talk, Bull could wait until he was looking a bit less ragged around the edges before pushing him further.

Bull observed the other man closely, watching as Cullen looked down at himself a few more times before seemingly fixating on the campfire. The golden light cast fey shadows over the Commander’s face, emphasizing the hollows of his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes. His curly blond hair hung lank and greasy, the scruff coming in along his jawline was beginning to thicken into a proper beard (albeit one much in need of tending), and all told he looked a fair sight different from what Bull was accustomed to seeing as the Commander of the Inquisition. While Dorian, Josephine and Vivienne all gave Cullen guff over his appearance – unstylish, far too Ferelden, _what in Thedas is that dead thing slung over your shoulders, Commander?_ – the Commander was nonetheless typically neat, well-groomed and austere. At the moment he appeared thoroughly disreputable, more like an Avvar raider or a bandit – or more like one of Bull’s Chargers. Grim’s brother, maybe. Someone Bull had only recently offered a contract to and wasn’t certain he’d fit in because he didn’t look particularly trustworthy.

The idea of Cullen as a Charger amused Bull. The man was a soldier, through and through, but he’d been a commanding officer long enough that Bull wasn’t entirely certain he would be comfortable taking orders from someone else again. Still, he was one hell of a fighter – surprisingly adaptable, with a flexibility that Bull suspected came from outside the Templar Order, possibly a response to having to adjust to the changing circumstances in Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall (and now, in the Inquisition). He was smart, too, with a good head for tactics and strategy and a thirst for knowledge that rivalled Dorian’s. And it didn’t hurt that Bull liked and respected him, not just as a military leader and fellow member of the Inquisition, but as a friend as well. (Cullen was strong and pretty, and Bull had always had an appreciation for strong, pretty things.) Maybe, once Corypheus was dealt with and the Inquisition disbanded, Bull would offer the man a job and see where things went from there. The Chargers could use a man like Cullen – _and_ a woman like Lyre, assuming the two stuck together after all was said and done.

Sighing, Bull scratched at the base of his horns with the fingers of his good hand, wishing for the hundredth time that he had a tin of horn balm to help with the itching. Across the campfire Cullen’s head drooped, his eyelids growing heavy. The man’s lips were moving; he must be talking to himself, but Bull couldn’t hear whatever he was saying. The shadows and shifting light made it difficult for Bull to read his lips, but he thought he saw the word ‘dragon,’ which made him grin – maybe the Commander had been dreaming about dragons instead of demons for a change.

A noise from outside the cave caught Bull’s attention, and his head whipped around, the tips of his pointed ears twitching as he tried to zero in on the sound. There was something moving around out there – something big, scuffling over the rocks. The Storm Coast had bears and tuskets and giant spiders, but Bull had yet to see any of those animals on Dragon Island; the largest things he’d seen had been the dragonlings. (There was, he knew, a high dragon living on the island, but whatever he was hearing didn’t sound _that_ large – much to his disappointment. Not that their little party was in any condition to take on a dragon, but still, a Qunari could dream, right?)

Whatever it was, it was getting closer, and it hadn’t set off Solas’s wards. Bull clambered to his feet and was pleased to see both Cullen and Solas taking note, the Commander snapping out of whatever daydream he’d fallen into as the elf woke up beside him.

Bull grabbed his axe just as Solas whispered, “What is it?”

“Don’t know.” Bull shrugged, his voice as soft as the elf’s had been. “Sounds big.”

“My wards should –” A sudden explosion sounded from outside the cave as if in answer to Solas’s statement, the noise followed by an angry roar.

All three of them spoke at once: _“Crap.”_ “That sounds like –” _“Darkspawn.”_

There had been reports of darkspawn activity throughout the Storm Coast, but Bull had been under the impression that most of the entrances to the Deep Roads – from whence the darkspawn came – had been closed. Granted, he didn’t think anyone had bothered to check out darkspawn activity on Dragon Island: given the impossibility of anything getting _off_ the island it hadn’t seemed like a priority, no more than the high dragon had been (darkspawn, at least, weren’t known to fly). An oversight, obviously, but then no one could have anticipated Bull, Solas and the Commander finding themselves stranded there.

If it was just a genlock or hurlock or two that wouldn’t be much of a concern, but the scuffling sounded bigger than that – and now that Bull was listening even more intently he could tell that he was hearing more than one. And they were moving towards the cave, either because they were aware that the three of them were holed up inside or because they believed it might lead into the Deep Roads and away from the surface. In either case there was nowhere for Bull and the others to hide and nowhere for them to go.

Shimmering blue light settled over Bull as Solas cast a barrier spell upon the three of them. Axe in hand the Qunari mercenary made his way out of the cave, aware of both Solas and Cullen following close behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that Cullen had armed himself with a pair of sticks, suitable as makeshift cudgels, and once again Bull found himself marvelling at the other man’s adaptability. It was something he took for granted as a member of the Ben-Hassrath – he had been trained to use whatever items came to hand, rather than to rely upon the same set of weapons every time – but it was unusual to see outsiders with the same measure of flexibility, especially Templars, who were typically reliant upon their standard sword-and-board fighting style. No doubt Cullen would have been happier with his sword and shield in hand, but he seemed perfectly comfortable with his cudgels, giving the wooden sticks a cautious spin to test his grip. There was a bit of lingering stiffness in his right hand but all in all Bull felt confident of Cullen’s ability to pull his weight in a fight.

And it was a good thing, too, for the instant Bull stepped foot outside of the cave the fight was upon them and he found himself facing off against three large hurlocks, all armed with the heavy, rough-hewn swords common to their kind.

Even a man who loved violence and combat as much as the Iron Bull did still had reason to give pause when confronted with darkspawn. It was best to face them wearing as much armour as possible, with as little bare skin as possible – and Bull’s armour, such as it was, was hardly suited to the task. Under normal circumstances he would be wearing vitaar, the Qunari body-paint that hardened the skin and was poisonous to anyone who came into contact with him, but whatever vitaar he had donned upon arriving on the Storm Coast was long washed away. Clad as he was in just his “circus tent atrocity” trousers and a leather harness, Bull was keenly aware of how much tough grey skin was left exposed, and Solas and Cullen were little better off. (Given that Cullen was more accustomed to wearing full armour it might be argued that he was _worse_ off, since the ex-Templar wasn’t used to fighting with so little protection.) Exposure to the darkspawn taint was a real hazard and it was difficult to engage in melee with the hurlocks without feeling hideously vulnerable. Bull had no idea how effective Solas’s magical barriers would be against such an enemy, if at all; so far as he knew Solas’s shielding would only protect against physical attacks, not the Blight.

Still, there was little help for it. Axe hefted high, the Iron Bull charged the middle hurlock and let out a challenging roar guaranteed to make himself the focus of enemy attention. Within seconds the fight was engaged.

The familiar rush of bloodlust settled over Bull. This, _this_ was a fight he could sink his teeth into. For all that he was tired and battered and still feeling the loss of his ankle-brace, the sheer act of testing his mettle against three hurlocks was more than enough to make up for having to run away from the mages and demons. Against these enemies Bull gave no quarter.

Bull felt the shock of impact as his axe sank into the chest of the centre hurlock. Blood sprayed, the creature howled and went down. Bull wrenched his axe free. A brutal downward stroke finished the darkspawn off and he used the back-swing to strike out at the hurlock to his left. Another impact: axe-blade against sword-blade, sparks flying. He grunted, parried, swung again.

Sharp stinging pain along his flank. Bull shunted the pain away, using it to feed his Reaver talents, his anger building. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cullen dart in, surprisingly light on his feet in spite of his lingering injuries, jabbing at the hurlock with both cudgels to harry the creature. Another slash along Bull’s left shoulder – even near-mindless creatures like hurlocks seemed intent upon attacking his blind side – and he let out a roar, a red haze filling his vision. His blood sang, every muscle in his body lit up with the sheer delight of violence.

Frost speckled the hurlocks, slowing their movements and weighing them down. Solas was conserving mana, using his staff to channel energy at their enemies rather than bringing out the bigger, flashier spells that would wear him down. The air smelled of ozone and copper, the ice crackling along the hurlocks’ flesh and armour.

The second hurlock dropped, felled by two solid hits from Cullen, one to the knee, a follow-up to the throat. Bull surged forward, slamming the third hurlock back a few steps. The creature tripped over an exposed tree root and went sprawling and Bull was on it in an instant. Black tainted blood splashed and bone snapped under his axe. The hurlock’s sword lashed out once but was blocked by the hilt of Bull’s axe; he spun the axe in a two-handed grip, bringing the blade down with a satisfying crunch that perfectly bisected the darkspawn’s skull.

Bull turned, grinning, his cheer dying on his lips as he saw a fourth hurlock coming up behind Cullen, a two-handed hammer held high over its head. There wasn’t time to cry out a warning and Bull watched in mute horror as the hammer came down.

There must have been some warning on Bull’s face, or some sound had given the hurlock away. Cullen dodged at the last second, not enough to avoid the hammer entirely, but enough to avoid the full force of the blow. The impact was still enough to snap Cullen’s head back, a viciously sharp turn so hard and fast Bull felt a pang of terror that it had broken Cullen’s neck. Cullen dropped, body going limp like one of those fancy Orlesian puppets – _marionettes,_ Bull’s mind supplied uselessly – with its strings cut. Wooden sticks hit the dirt, a one-two punch in time with the thud of his limp, listless body. The hurlock raised its hammer again to finish him off.

Bull bellowed and charged like the beast he named himself for. Dimly he felt his trick knee give way under him, but he pushed past the pain and sudden weakness to fling his full weight against the hurlock. Too focused on its attack on Cullen to notice the impending danger, the hurlock didn’t have time to dodge or block the Iron Bull, and the impact – the full weight of Bull’s body, combined with his forward momentum and the pull of gravity – sent them both sprawling.

Bull recovered first. Axe lost in the scuffle, he instead grabbed the hurlock, wrapping both massive hands around the creature’s head and _twisting_. There was a sickening crunch as the neck snapped. The hurlock twitched once, twice, and then was still, head resting at an unnatural angle.

A twig snapped behind him. Bull startled, tried to get up, but his knee wouldn’t support his weight. He didn’t need to be able to see it to know the knee had slipped out of joint. Behind him, breathing heavily and resting on his staff, Solas moved in for a closer look, frost dusting from his fingertips. A cut had opened up along one cheekbone, bleeding sluggishly; behind him were two more darkspawn – not hurlocks, something smaller but every bit as dangerous. Both were dead, their bodies encased in ice.

“I’m fine,” Bull lied, heaving himself off the dead hurlock to flop on the ground on his back. “Help Cullen.” He wanted to look; he didn’t want to look; he was certain the other man had to be dead, neck broken, skull caved in – he’d seen the hammer, seen the way Cullen had dropped, hard and graceless.

Bull fully expected to hear sounds of grief and sorrow from the elf. He didn’t expect to hear a groan and a half-choked-off _“Maker’s breath”_ followed by the unmistakable sound of retching. Pushing himself up to a half-sitting position, Bull couldn’t mask the sigh of relief when he looked over and saw Cullen, hunched over on his hands and knees and puking into the leaves. The Commander’s face was dead-white and there was a massive goose-egg forming on his forehead, but he was alive and conscious.

Cullen waved Solas off with a shaking hand before wiping his mouth off on his forearm.

“’M all right,” he mumbled, sinking down onto his haunches and staring miserably at the puddle of vomit. “Jus’ … I jus’ … _Just_ gimme – _give me_ – a moment.”

“Yeah, you sound _great,”_ Bull said sarcastically, before groaning and stretching out his bum knee. Even through his trousers he could see that the angle of his leg looked wrong. He dreaded taking his pants off and seeing the damage for real. He’d seen it before, of course, but seeing it made it _real_ and it was always both vaguely disgusting and vaguely unsettling. Bodies weren’t supposed to _bend_ that way.

“Can you stand?” Solas asked him, still hovering protectively over the Commander. He brushed the tips of his fingers over his own face only to end up staring blankly at the blood on his hand, confused. After a moment’s pause he felt the cut along his cheekbone, a puzzled expression on his face as if he couldn’t recall how he’d come by the injury.

“Nope,” Bull admitted, “not even a little bit. Fucked my knee up pretty good.”

Solas stared pointedly at the dead hurlock that Bull had sacrificed his knee in order to kill. Had the darkspawn been permitted to continue it would have killed Cullen. “All things considered,” the elf said thoughtfully, “it is better than the alternative.”

“Yep,” Bull agreed, then grimaced. He’d given up his eye for Krem and he hadn’t even _known_ the Tevinter soldier; it was entirely within character for him to be willing to sacrifice more for a friend. At least his knee could be healed – not fully, but he’d accepted that reality years ago when the injury had first happened. Still, it hurt like a son of a bitch and he hated the feeling of helplessness that came with the loss of mobility. _Fuck,_ he missed his brace. It wouldn’t have stopped him from hurting himself, but if he’d been wearing it the injury might not be so bad.

The worst part was knowing that, as with Cullen’s dislocated fingers, the joint would have to be reset before Solas could use any healing magic on the injury. To do otherwise would be to risk the knee “healing” out of joint, which would cause further pain and damage and ran the risk of permanently crippling the Iron Bull. He’d had his knee reset plenty of times – this wasn’t the first time he’d popped it out of joint in a fight (or, on at least one memorable occasion, in bed) – and it fucking _hurt._ And this time he wouldn’t get to comfort himself with a bottle of Antivan brandy and the magically-warmed hands of his Tevinter mage lover.

Some days it just didn’t pay to get out of bed. Or out of the cave, as it were. Still, right up until the moment that Cullen got brained by a hammer-wielding hurlock, the fight had been pretty sweet. Just what Bull had needed after having to run from the apostates.

“Are you able to help the Iron Bull up?” Solas asked Cullen, once the Commander had managed to climb back to his feet. Cullen’s face was still too pale and his eyes were wide and glassy, but he stood steady, curling and uncurling his fists.

Cullen didn’t answer the elf. Instead he was staring off into the distance, towards the shoreline. As before when Bull caught him gazing into the campfire, the Commander had a vague, empty expression on his face, and his lips were moving silently as though he was talking to himself. This time the angle was too awkward for Bull to even attempt reading his lips, but he strongly suspected the man wasn’t mumbling about dragons.

“Commander?” Solas said uncertainly, frowning. Bull cleared his throat loudly and contemplated throwing something – a small rock, maybe, or a clump of wet leaves – in Cullen’s direction. He’d taken one hell of a knock to the head; frankly, Bull was amazed that he was upright at all.

Then, as if in deliberate contrariness, Cullen’s eyes rolled back in his head, one hand fluttered up near his chest, and, for the second time that day, he collapsed, crumpling to the ground like a broken doll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a recurring joke over in the Star Wars: The Old Republic fandom where I give Theron Shan repeated concussions, so here, now it's Cullen's turn.
> 
> And before anyone can point out that Cullen's narrative doesn't agree with Bull's pre-fight narrative ... yeah, how 'bout that, huh? *evil grin*


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares and doubts continue to hound Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for sexual assault/sexual humiliation and discussion of suicide (not at the same time, but still!)

Cullen awakened to a warm, familiar body pressed to his front, softly curving arse snuggled in close against his firming groin, the tickle of dark hair in his face. His right hand curled around a small, firm breast, the jut of a nipple poking into the centre of his palm. His breath matched hers; he smelled the familiar scent of her: fresh apples and spiced honey and the scent of petrichor that he associated with her magic, as if somehow magic could smell like the earth before a rainfall. Hers did, he was certain of it.

He sensed it, the moment she joined him in waking. There was a soft gasp, barely audible in her quiet bedroom, and then she was nestling in against him, her buttocks wriggling in a most enticing manner that only served to encourage his morning erection.

There was nothing strange about waking beside her. Cullen had slept with Lyre – actually _slept,_ curled beside her, her quiet voice and gentle hands soothing away his lyrium-addled nightmares – long before their relationship had become sexual. She preferred to sleep with others, long in the habit of doing so with her Dalish clanmates, cuddled together in one of their aravels. Out in the field, away from Skyhold, Cullen knew she tended to share a tent with Dorian, when Bull did not accompany them, or with Sera, and for all that they were physically affectionate there was nothing inherently sexual or sensual in the experience; indeed, Lyre looked upon Dorian and Sera as the brother and sister she had never had. And so, once he’d confessed to her his nightmares and his fractured sleeping habits, Lyre had taken it upon herself to help him to rest. Once their relationship _did_ turn sexual it had seemed a natural thing for him to fall asleep beside her. There was a rightness to it, to sharing such a private and intimate experience with her.

Lyre shifted, wriggling around until she was facing him, and she smiled at him, her expression one of sleepy pleasure. Her hands drifted, gliding over the planes of his chest, along his flanks, and then down his hip, fingers soft but insistent. The look she gave him was sensual, seductive, and –

No, wait, that was wrong, somehow, wasn’t it? Lyre wasn’t a seductress. She didn’t play the coy coquette, didn’t bat her eyelashes at him or gaze at him with limpid, lambent eyes. She was enthusiastic and overt, upfront about her desires and mindful of his boundaries. She knew he often awakened feeling restless and insecure and overly sensitive; she waited for him to instigate sex in the mornings, because so often he was still reeling from nightmares of Kinloch Hold and the temptations of the Lust demons therein. She knew he wasn’t often in the mood, first thing in the morning. They’d talked about it, that first night after they’d begun having sex, because Cullen had needed Lyre to know about his nightmares and insecurities and that the fact that he often woke up with sex the furthest desire from his mind had nothing to do with how much he still desired _her_.

Lyre pressed both hands to Cullen’s chest and pushed, forcing him onto his back before sliding one leg over his hip and straddling him. Her expression was one of playful sensuality, something he only ever saw once things were well in swing and she knew he would appreciate the seduction. Her hands slid down his arms, yanking his hands over his head and pinning him there by his wrists. He tried to pull free – she knew full well mornings were not a good time to try such bed games – but she held firm, her weight pushing him into the mattress.

Cullen’s heartrate picked up, not from arousal but anxiety. This … This wasn’t right, this wasn’t the way things worked between them. His head pounded, a dull and steady ache that radiated from the centre of his forehead all the way around his skull.

“Love, not now,” he said, and the urge to follow it up with “not now, I have a headache” was almost laughably high. It was the truth, but there was more to it than that; the headache was the least of his concerns. “Please, I don’t –”

She ground her hips against his, pouting down at him in a way he’d not seen before. Lyre wasn’t one for grandiose displays of sulking. Her hands, wrapped tightly around his wrists, squeezed hard enough that he thought he could feel his bones grinding in her grasp. Her eyes seemed to shift from golden-green to silvery-blue and then back again, and when she opened her mouth slightly to lick at her lips her teeth seemed far too sharp and even.

“I want to fuck,” she whined, with another thrust of her hips. Cullen winced, as much at the pressure on his groin as at the vulgar language – which was, in itself, a confirmation of the _wrongness_ of things. For all that Lyre was quick to profanity and free with her ribaldry outside of the bedroom, she knew that coarse language and dirty talk made him uncomfortable, and limited herself in its use for his sake. (Not all the time: in the heat of things they could both be vulgar, but never at the start, never before he was ready for it. It wasn’t that he was a prude – well, it wasn’t _just_ that, but he _was_ every bit the Chantry-boy she teased him about being – but that he hadn’t been raised to talk in such a fashion and he needed to work up to it. Lyre knew that. She _knew_ that.)

“Get off me,” Cullen hissed, his voice little more than a whisper. Then, louder: “Get off me!” He followed the words up with a shove that sent Lyre – or the thing pretending to be Lyre – sprawling backwards on the bed, where she huddled and glared up at him with another pout.

“What’s the matter, sweet thing?” Not-Lyre purred, shifting so that she was crouching over him as he struggled to get up. She reached out and wrapped one cold, claw-like hand around Cullen’s rapidly-softening cock, letting out a malicious cackle. “Don’t tell me those apostates ruined you for me. Is that it? Got yourself stuffed with filthy apostate cock, and now you can’t get it up for your one true love?”

Cullen gasped, shame and embarrassment flooding through him. She didn’t _know,_ he hadn’t had the chance yet to tell her what had happened, she _couldn’t_ know …

She gave his cock a squeeze and then a too-rough twist that made him fight to hold back a pained whimper. Not-Lyre rolled her eyes – hazel shifting to blue shifting back to hazel – and let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Bad enough that the lyrium made you limp,” she said, and he cringed at the scorn in her voice. “Useless when you’re on lyrium, useless now that you’re off it … Ugh, what good are you to me, anyway?”

Cullen’s face burned with humiliation. It was true, the lyrium had made it difficult to function sometimes, and even going off had done little to help. It had been fine while he was a Templar: for the most part he’d had little desire for fornication, all his energy given up in devotion to the Order, and when he had felt the urge he’d had other Templars to slake it with – and other Templars had understood, as he did, the restrictions lyrium abuse placed upon the flesh. But Lyre knew, too; they’d spoken of it, and she’d made it clear from the very start that her interest in him was not reliant upon his ability to perform in bed. She was fully aware that lyrium abuse, withdrawal and the tortures he had suffered in Kinloch Hold had had a negative impact on his sex drive and performance; it had never been an issue between them, before. She had always been patient and loving and affectionate, and sex, she was always quick to say, did not depend solely upon him and his ability to perform. He knew other ways to satisfy. He’d never had cause to doubt.

And yet now, this thing, this Not-Lyre, was dredging up every little insecurity Cullen had, digging at his old scars – and the new ones, that had yet to be healed – and hauling them out into the daylight. In a matter of seconds all the hurts that the real Lyre had worked hard to help him to heal were torn open, and Cullen was left with his soul and psyche in tatters.

“Ugh, look at you,” the thing said, giving him another heartless squeeze. “Pathetic. The Inquisition would be better off if the apostates had kept you as their plaything. You’re of no use to anyone as you are.”

The thing – the _Not-Lyre_ – drew back, rearing up onto its haunches to glare down at him. It twisted Lyre’s lips into a smirk, something malicious and gleeful glinting in its mercurial eyes. Cullen realized, belatedly, that the thing’s eyes kept shifting between Lyre’s colour and Lea Surana’s: hazel to blue, blue to hazel, over and over again. It eased off the bed, away from Cullen, and stood, twisting and turning Lyre’s familiar form as if posing for him.

The pounding in Cullen’s head grew worse, accompanied by a growing nausea. His heartbeat was loud – too loud – in his ears and he tasted copper on his tongue. The room around him was spinning, shifting from the familiar sight of Lyre’s bedroom at Skyhold to dark, unknown shadows with things that lurked in unseen corners.

“You’re too late, anyway,” it said, still smirking, gesturing down at itself. “I’ll make a much better Inquisitor than I would ever a Commander. You, you’re pathetic and weak and … ugh, so _boring!_ Her, though? Your pretty little Inquisitor is going to rule Thedas, and once I replace her …” It smiled, showing far too many teeth, and Cullen’s stomach did a slow, queasy roll.

No, no, this wasn’t possible. Had the Venatori given up on reclaiming Cullen – given up on his plans to replace Cullen with the Envy demon – and instead set his sights upon Lyre? By escaping the mages’ clutches, had Cullen inadvertently put Lyre in the creature’s path? The Venatori and the apostates were on the Storm Coast, but they could easily reach Skyhold in a week if they traveled hard, and meanwhile Cullen was trapped on an island with Solas and the Iron Bull, and with no means of escape and little hope of rescue outside of a vague dream he’d had with Cole and Wynne. He’d tried to get Wynne to send word to Cole in Skyhold, but … what if she hadn’t? What if, by choosing to save Cullen, that meant she’d been unable to get in contact with Cole, and now Lyre was in danger and it was Cullen’s fault for needing Wynne’s help in the first place?

The creature’s smile broadened at Cullen’s evident distress, and the next thing he knew he was being pushed back down into the mattress, a body that was both like and unlike his lover’s pressing down upon him. A familiar hand tipped with unfamiliar claws brushed along his cheek before trailing lower, skimming through the wiry blond hairs on his chest and down across the smooth planes of his stomach. Lyre’s face – yet not Lyre’s face – loomed over him as lips pressed against his; sharp teeth – far, far too sharp for human or elven teeth – nipped at his lip, drawing blood. The creature forced his legs open, nestling between his thighs, and he fought to shake her – _it_ – off. His hands, once more forced up over his head, slid under the pillow.

His hand closed around something hard and firm.

A hilt.

The hilt of a knife.

“Don’t fight me, sweet thing,” the creature whispered, its voice sounding less like Lyre’s and more like Tiny’s, the apostate from the cave, the one who’d … Cullen shook his head, trying to block the sound out, the face above his shifting from Lyre’s to Lea’s to Tiny’s and back again with such rapidity that the features blurred together. “I promise I’ll make it good for you.”

Quicker than thought Cullen whipped the knife out from under the pillow. His grip was bad, awkward, but he managed a clumsy slash that nonetheless cut across the creature’s throat. Blood – black and thick and smelling of something rotten – spilled forth from the ragged gash, splashing down onto Cullen’s face and in his mouth. He gagged even as the creature reared back, both its clawed hands clasped around its slit throat, the blood welling out between its fingers.

The creature was screaming, and then it was Lyre’s voice, pained and frightened, and the face that stared down at him was hers. Her eyes – now that achingly familiar green-gold-hazel – were wide and filled with betrayal. The throbbing in his head grew worse, waves upon waves of fiery pain radiating from that central spot on his forehead outwards until it felt like his entire body was on fire.

The creature made a grab for the knife, at first trying to pull it free from Cullen’s hand and then, failing at that, attempting to twist it around to force Cullen to use it on himself. Claws dug into Cullen’s wrist, squeezing at the pressure point there, and then –

Something exploded inside Cullen’s skull. Pain like a thousand hot needles jabbing behind his eyes, through his body. He screamed and the creature screamed with him and his mouth tasted of blood and –

Everything went dark.

O o O o O

The next time Cullen opened his eyes he knew himself to be dreaming. He recognized the decadence of Halamshiral, where they’d fought to save the life of the Empress of Orlais and where the court itself – and the ridiculous Game the Orlesians were so fond of – was the biggest hazard to their success. This time around everything was just a little bit different, a little bit wrong: the floor tiles in the Grand Ballroom were in a different pattern, the colours of his ill-fitting Inquisition uniform were swapped around, the orchestra played the music in an off-key that felt like knives scraping at his teeth.

He knew he was dreaming, but he couldn’t wake up.

Lyre was here, somewhere. He had seen her, dressed not in her Inquisition uniform but instead in the elaborate ballgown she had worn the night after Empress Celene was saved, a frothy green piece of silk and satin and lace that matched the glow from the Anchor on her palm. (Another clue that this was a dream: Lyre had _hated_ that dress, and he had been present when she had burned it in a bonfire in the courtyard at Skyhold. The Chargers had composed an impromptu dirge for the dress; his soldiers had been singing it weeks later during drills.) Accompanying the much-loathed dress was a mask, in the Orlesian custom, with green ribbons to match the gown and a gold inlay set in the pattern of Lyre’s _vallaslin,_ deliberately flaunting the Inquisitor’s Dalish heritage in a place where the Dalish were very much second-class citizens.

All around him finely-dressed men and women danced and milled about, much as they had during his first appearance at Halamshiral. Cullen kept trying to put his back to the wall – as much to lessen his wariness as to limit opportunities for his bottom to be pinched – but the wall kept moving, the floor of the Grand Ballroom growing wider and wider and the crowd of nobles and servants growing larger and larger. There was a continuous whispering just on the edge of hearing that had a vaguely malicious undercurrent to it, and Cullen was keenly aware of the masked faces always turned towards him.

He hated masks. Even as a child Cullen had found something unsettling about fixed faces: dolls, masks, clowns, anything where paint or makeup hid the true features underneath. Kinloch Hold had only worsened that dislike, his demonic tormentors able to shift their faces to whatever dark purpose they desired. Since Kinloch he’d had nightmares where unknown enemies would remove their masks only to reveal another mask underneath, and then yet another mask underneath that one, and so on and so forth until he couldn’t be certain what he was seeing. Halamshiral had been an uncomfortable experience for Cullen as much because of the Orlesian custom of the nobility wearing masks as because of the underlying threat of Corypheus’s presence.

Now, in his nightmare, Cullen knew the masked faces around him hid more masks underneath, and while at the real Halamshiral he’d had his friends in the Inquisition to provide comfort and stability, here in the dream version he suspected he would find no such respite. Long familiarity with this aspect of the dream made him brace for the moment when the masks would begin coming off, revealing the unending succession of false faces that troubled him so.

Cullen’s head ached and his hands trembled slightly from lyrium withdrawal, much as they had the first time he’d been in Halamshiral. Then, he’d been able to hide the symptoms of withdrawal by keeping his gloved hands clasped behind his back and adopting a parade-rest stance that befit his position as the leader of the Inquisition’s military. Now whenever he tried to hide his hands he had someone grabbing at him, yanking his arms forward as if to display his weakness to the entire Orlesian court, and when the trembling increased he could hear laughter, dark and malevolent and always just slightly out of sight so he could never pinpoint the source.

The whispers were getting louder. Cullen was completely unsurprised to discover they were about him.

“—should be replaced, of course,” one masked Orlesian was saying, head turned ever-so-slightly away from Cullen in such a way as to make it obvious that he was speaking about him. “It will never do to have such a weakling commanding the Inquisition’s forces.”

“And to think, that weakling shares the Inquisitor’s bed!” A woman’s voice, high and scandalized, cried out and was met by laughter like tinkling glass. “What _must_ she see in him?”

“A dalliance, nothing more,” another woman assured the first, with more laughter.

“Fitting,” said the first man who had spoken, tone scornful. “A Ferelden dog-lord and his knife-ear bitch, rutting like animals in the mud. We’ll all be better off once Corypheus slits her throat and hands him over to the Red General.” Cullen shuddered at the mention of his old Templar compatriot Samson; many of his nightmares since the fall of Haven had included Corypheus’s so-called Red General and his red lyrium.

A man stepped forward, face masked but the curled blond hair giving his identity away – Cullen didn’t need to see his own face to recognize himself, or the nightmare’s version of himself. The mask slid away, revealing a slightly younger version of Cullen, curly-haired and with that dreadful circle beard he’d grown in an attempt to make himself look older and more dignified. He wore his old Templar uniform, the Sword of Mercy on his gleaming silverite breastplate. He looked smug and self-important and self-righteous, and Cullen very much wanted to punch his younger self and see if it wiped the smug smile off his face.

“Mages aren’t people like you and me,” his younger self said confidently to the nobles gathered around him. “You can’t treat them as such.”

Yet another version of Cullen came up and stood beside his self from Kirkwall; this time, he recognized himself from Kinloch Hold: nineteen, terrorized, his Templar armour battered and shredded and smeared with blood and other filth. His honey-brown eyes were too wide and sunken in dark circles as he pleaded with another ghost from his past, begging the absent Hero of Ferelden to annul the Circle and execute every last mage left within Kinloch’s walls. Cullen’s Kirkwall self and his Kinloch Hold self stared at each other, both versions ranting about how untrustworthy and dangerous mages were, how they couldn’t be treated like people, how they should all be made Tranquil or killed outright. Cullen watched, sickened at the reminders of the man he used to be – a man who, had he been given the chance, would have advised Cassandra to execute the Herald of Andraste the moment she fell out of the Fade.

“Does she know?” a new – yet familiar – masculine voice asked him, ringing with the accents of Tevinter. Cullen turned to see Evandrus, the Venatori blood mage, smirking down at him from a raised dais where he sat on one half of a pair of thrones. On the other throne, lounging with an insolent grace Cullen had never seen from her before, was Lyre, still clad in that green gown she so loathed. Her Anchor-lit hand was clasped in Evandrus’s, the two of them leaning together in a conspiratorial manner. Behind them, perfectly framed by their curled-together bodies, was the Envy demon. It towered over them, one clawed hand resting lightly on Lyre’s shoulder. Although its face was eyeless and blank Cullen had the distinct impression the demon was staring at him, watching him.

“Does she know who you were?” Evandrus asked, glancing meaningfully between Cullen and Lyre. He chucked her under the chin affectionately, making her laugh. Cullen couldn’t even imagine doing such a thing himself; the Lyre he knew would never have tolerated such patronizing condescension. “Does your beloved Inquisitor know what manner of monster she takes to her bed?”

“Of course not,” the Envy demon said, and when it spoke it did so in Cullen’s voice.

“Of course not,” the Venatori agreed. “What mage would let such a man touch her, if she knew the truth of him?”

“What man would let a _mage_ touch him?” the Kinloch Hold version of Cullen asked, sounding horrified and disgusted, as if his childish infatuation with the Hero of Ferelden had never happened and he could never imagine himself having such feelings for her.

“It’s better if they’re made Tranquil,” Kirkwall Cullen said. He tapped the side of his nose and gave his younger self a conspiratorial wink. “Just ask Ser Alrik. A good Tranquil will do _anything_ you want.”

Cullen swallowed against the bile rising in his throat, shame and guilt flooding him. Hawke had told him what Ser Otto Alrik had been doing, the abuses he had committed against the mages of Kirkwall and his threats to make them Tranquil if they didn’t comply. He had known and he had turned the other way because to do otherwise would have been to acknowledge that the Templar Order wasn’t the bastion of goodness and purity he had believed it to be. And, in truth, had he spoken out against Alrik and his fellows, Cullen likely would have ended up dead or worse. Knight-Commander Meredith wouldn’t have listened to him or supported him. Cullen hadn’t supported Alrik – not the way his nightmare-self seemed to imply – but by failing to report him, by failing to stop him, he was complicit in the man’s actions, as guilty as if he had raped and branded the mages himself.

“You see, my dear?” said Evandrus, his thumb stroking over Lyre’s chin and along the curve of her jaw like a man petting his prized mabari. “You deserve a man who will treat you like a queen. Like a _magister.”_ Behind them the Envy demon curled its claws over Lyre’s shoulder, something strangely possessive in the gesture. Evandrus waved towards Cullen. “Not this fool. Not this … plaything of demons and apostates.”

The Envy demon leaned down, its body twisting in half until its sharp-toothed mouth was brushing against Lyre’s pointed ear. “Should I be you? Or should I be him?”

“Decisions, decisions,” Evandrus said, as if the demon was simply struggling to choose between two different pairs of shoes.

Cullen swallowed again and stepped forward, hand falling to the hilt of his sword, belted at his side in its customary place. The sword he’d worn to Halamshiral had been decorative, a fancy thing made of gilt and paste, but in his dream it had been replaced with his familiar longsword – the same one he’d dropped at the top of the cliff on the Storm Coast, along with his shield.

“I won’t let you take her,” he snarled, and both Evandrus and Lyre snapped eyes on him, the Venatori smiling in a vaguely patronizing manner, Lyre looking more politely curious than anything else.

The Envy demon shifted, mouth open in a mocking laugh before it hissed, in Cullen’s voice, “I won’t let you take her!”

Somewhere in the distance Cullen heard a low angry growl, and the whispering nobles behind him turned to screams and gasps of terror. He was dimly aware of the masked crowd around them parting as the massive wolf from his Kinloch Hold nightmare pushed its way to the dais, putting itself between Cullen and the others. The wolf’s hackles were raised, black fur bristling with anger and the promise of violence, and once again Cullen had a brief instant where he saw three eyes instead of two on the wolf’s long face.

The wolf turned, facing Cullen, its mouth falling open to reveal long white teeth as big as daggers. Storm-coloured eyes met Cullen’s, and then a massive paw lashed out, too fast for Cullen to see, and dark claws tore through the front of Cullen’s uniform jacket before the paw shoved him backwards.

 _WAKE,_ the wolf said, in that too-large voice Cullen remembered from before. _WAKE._

Cullen awoke.

O o O o O

The Iron Bull startled when Cullen came to with a sharp gasp. Good eye fixed on the Commander’s face, the Qunari waited a moment, studying the other man as he waited to see whether _this_ time the man was truly awake. Since his collapse following the fight with the darkspawn Cullen had awakened several times without truly waking up; the first time he’d fought both Solas and Bull, leaving the elf with harsh bruises around his neck and Bull with a broken nose. The second time he’d tried stumbling out of their cave only to crumple in a heap just outside the entrance, necessitating Bull and Solas hauling him back inside. Bull’s trick knee – reset and healed by Solas, but still very much out of commission – was not up to a third confrontation, nor were Bull’s nerves. This time around he was determined to just watch the Commander until he either proved himself fully awake or fell back into unconsciousness; either way, sitting back and watching was the safer response. Solas needed to conserve his energy, not spend every waking minute healing himself, the Commander or Bull, and Bull needed to not be a target dummy for a half-conscious human. Bull’s knee had not been helped by the need to drag Cullen back to the cave, nor by the effort of hauling away the bodies of dead darkspawn so that they wouldn’t draw the attention of scavengers (or worse critters). He was tired and aching and grumpy, and the last thing he wanted was to engage in another pointless confrontation with a man who wasn’t awake enough to remember it later.

Thus it was with great interest that Bull watched Cullen sit up and rub shaking hands over his face. The Commander was breathing in great, shuddering gasps as though he’d run the entire length of the Storm Coast, blinking rapidly as he tried to make sense of his environment.

“You really awake this time?” Bull asked, not bothering to get up and check for certain. Cullen turned his blinking gaze in Bull’s direction, and Bull elaborated, “You faked us out a few times. If you’re still in the middle of another nightmare I’d just as soon keep my ass out of the line of fire, y’know?”

“I … Um … I apologize,” Cullen said, rubbing at the back of his neck, a sheepish expression on his face; Bull rather doubted the man knew exactly what he was apologizing for, but he accepted nonetheless. “I think I’m awake this time. I think.”

Bull glanced over at Solas, who had curled up for a nap on the other side of the cave and had somehow managed to stay asleep through all of this. The elf had expressed a desire to try and attempt contacting Cole or Lyre back at Skyhold; with any luck the weird squirrely spirit kid would be looking for them in the Fade and Solas would be able to get in touch with him. Or Lyre would be there, looking for her Cully-Wully, and Solas would be able to speak with her. Bull didn’t know a whole lot about mages visiting each other in the Fade, but Solas had met with Lyre before and they knew Cole would be looking for them, so it stood to reason that one or the other would be around to make contact. At the very least Solas needed the rest – not that wandering the Fade searching for help sounded all that restful to Bull – after expending all his magical energies patching them up. _Again._

“How’s your head?” Bull asked. After Cullen’s collapse Solas had spent a considerable amount of time fussing over the Commander’s head injury. Humans – and elves and dwarves and really anyone who wasn’t Qunari – had such fragile skulls. Bull had been hit on the head lots of times and no one ever worried about him as much as Solas worried over Cullen. Although it was possible that both Dorian and Stitches expressed their worry through scathing remarks and lousy bedside manners.

Cullen opened his mouth, no doubt to say that he was fine or to offer up some equally false platitude, but instead he shrugged and shook his head ruefully. “Sore. A concussion, I take it?”

Bull nodded, chuckling. “Not the first, I’m guessing?” Cullen let out a snort and shook his head again, saying softly, “Nor likely the last, I’m afraid.”

“I’d tell you to stop leading with your face,” Bull said, then gestured at the scars on his own face, including the damaged eye socket around his missing eye. “But y’know … kettle … pot …” Cullen laughed at that – the first genuine laugh Bull had heard from the other man in a very long time – and Bull returned the smile, grinning broadly. “You … uh … You wanna talk about it?”

“About what?” Cullen replied, smile fading, leaving his face a blank, expressionless mask. He waved broadly, a motion that encompassed everything from his injuries to his nightmares to their experiences on the Storm Coast these past few days, and then gave his head another shake. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what, as the answer remains the same: no, I don’t want to talk about it. About any of it.”

Bull nodded, unsurprised. “Yeah, well, my door’s always open.”

Cullen smirked at him, the faint smile tugging at the scarred corner of his mouth. “So Dorian’s led me to believe.”

Bull let out a startled guffaw, surprised by Cullen’s snark. No doubt Lyre had told Cullen about Bull and Dorian’s bickering, after the first time they’d hooked up back in Skyhold, and all the innuendo between the two of them before that. Bull couldn’t remember everything he’d said to the ‘Vint, but he did know he’d made his open-door policy known to the mage – and that Dorian had taken him up on it, not long after that. There had been many nights where Bull had deliberately left his door unbarred and Dorian had let himself into the Qunari’s room, leaving in the wee hours of morning before anyone could discover the two of them together. (Not that Bull would have cared, back then, but Dorian most definitely had. Discretion wasn’t really Bull’s thing, at least not when it came to sex, but he’d wanted it to be more than a one-time thing with Dorian and discretion, he quickly learned, was the key to making that a reality.) Funny, Bull couldn’t remember the last time he’d left his door open for anyone other than Dorian – and now his fussy little ‘Vint had his own key. This whole monogamy thing was _weird._

Weird, but … good. A good kind of weird. Yeah.

The laughter died between them, Cullen studying his hands in silence, Bull watching him across the campfire. The worst of the bruising was gone, save for what had been a rather large goose-egg in the middle of Cullen’s forehead, but the Commander still looked too pale and gaunt for Bull’s liking. Hiding out in a cave on the Storm Coast was hardly conducive to a restful recovery, especially not when Cullen was already battling lyrium withdrawal on top of the injuries he’d sustained during his captivity. Fuck, Bull didn’t exactly feel like a spring chicken himself: his knee was a mess, he had a host of new scars along his back and sides from the fight with the darkspawn, and his magically-healed nose felt like one big giant bruise. Even half-conscious the Commander packed one hell of a punch; Bull wondered idly what it would be like to go up against the man in top form. He’d seen Cullen training, back in Skyhold, and had sparred with him a few times, but he imagined there would be a world of difference between sparring and a real fight between them. Bull knew he’d win, but he suspected the Commander would make him work for it.

Which brought to mind the memory of something that had been troubling Bull. Cullen wasn’t the sort to go quietly, which made what had happened on Daerwin’s Mouth seem all the more strange to Bull. Unwilling to let go of something that had been nagging at him for a while now, Bull squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, catching the other man’s attention again.

“Been wonderin’ about something, Commander,” he said, as Cullen looked at him across the fire. “Back at Daerwin’s Mouth, when you fell into the water …”

Cullen gave him a look. “I didn’t _fall,_ Bull.”

 _Ah._ Well, that answered part of Bull’s question. “Did you know we were there? Me and Solas?”

“No.” Cullen shrugged, then sighed, seeing the look on Bull’s face. “I told you already, Bull, I’m not suicidal. I don’t want to die.” He looked down at his hands again, flexing the fingers of his right hand into a fist and then relaxing them again. “I’m not suicidal, but … I’ll not allow myself to be used against h—against the Inquisition.” Bull heard the cut-off _her_ as clearly as if Cullen had spoken the word aloud. “In the absence of alternatives, I thought … better to drown than to betray the Inquisition.”

It was not a surprising admission. Bull knew enough about Cullen’s history to know that loyalty and conviction were among his strongest traits, and it was something he appreciated about the man. As much as Cullen may have slipped and almost admitted it was Lyre he was afraid of betraying, Bull knew the other man’s devotion to the Inquisition itself was just as strong. Cullen wouldn’t allow himself to betray the Inquisition or the woman that he loved; that, in this instant, the two were essentially the same only made his stubbornness all the more understandable. And truth be told, it was a conviction the Iron Bull shared.

“I am … not ungrateful that you saved me, Iron Bull,” Cullen acknowledged slowly, still staring at his hand. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, his teeth clacking together with the suddenness of the action. Bull leaned forward, hands on his knees, intent upon hearing whatever Cullen wanted to tell him.

Across the fire Solas shifted and stirred, sitting up slowly to rub fisted hands into his eyes. Whatever Cullen had been about to say died on his lips as the elf looked from Cullen to Bull and then back again, a sombre expression on his face. His gaze lingered on Cullen, looking both thoughtful and deeply troubled.

“Commander,” Solas said, quiet but serious, “We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter. It's been started, restarted, deleted, started again and edited within an inch of its life and I'm still not thrilled with it. It fought me all damned weekend. It also wasn't originally my intention to end on yet another cliffhanger, but it was getting long and the conversation that comes next is not going to be short, so ... again, I say "ugh" and dump it on you.
> 
> Also, reminder that I haven't played DAII, so if I've messed up the elements involving Ser Alrik it's an honest mistake. Edit: A huge shout-out to LightsideKnight for pointing out my errors regarding Ser Karras/Ser Alrik; corrections have been made. (Further mistakes are all mine.)
> 
> I've also updated the tag to include "unreliable narrator," in part because of Cullen's dream at the beginning of the chapter (that he doesn't initially recognize as a dream) and in part because ... well, there _is_ a reason he and Bull aren't seeing and hearing the same things ...
> 
> Cullen's fear of masks is very much my own. (The dream about taking off a mask only to reveal another mask underneath is one I've had since I was a little kid.) I'm terrified of clowns and dolls and masks, and I swear Halamshiral was the worst simply because every freaking person in Orlais wears a mask. :P I can't imagine Cullen would find it any more enjoyable, especially given that the demons that tormented him in Kinloch took on other faces as part of the torture and being able to literally change your face is arguably worse than just wearing a mask.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theories and explanations are exchanged, and Solas and the Iron Bull have a heart-to-heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies once again for the delay in getting this chapter out. I've been struggling with "ooh shiny!" lately, and keep flitting between this, a bit of Cullen/Lyre one-shot smut, and a new fic featuring Cullen and a mage Trevelyan and ... ugh.

_“Commander, we need to talk.”_

Solas’s voice was calm and quiet, but the moment those five words left his lips Cullen tensed up, his shoulders hunching up almost to his ears and his arms wrapping around his torso as if by doing so he could somehow protect himself from whatever the mage had to say. The Iron Bull was unsurprised by Cullen’s reaction: when in the history of Thedas had such a phrase ever been uttered without it leading to an unpleasant or uncomfortable conversation? “We need to talk” was how couples ended their relationships, how parents explained awkward truths to their children, how mercenary captains terminated contracts with their employees. Those four words never preceded a discussion about Orlesian pastries or the best training techniques for mabari pups or a genuine inquiry into what would be the best material to make a sword out of. (For the record, in Bull’s estimation the answer to that last bit was “dawnstone.” It was brittle as fuck, but man, was it ever _pretty.)_

Of course Solas saw Cullen’s reaction: he was looking right at the man, how could he fail to notice the way the Commander went stiff as a board and paler than fresh-fallen snow? Solas bowed his head, acknowledging Cullen’s tension, and offered up a faint yet sympathetic smile, his blue-grey eyes filled with understanding.

“First, I have some good news,” Solas said, in that same soft, serene tone of voice. He settled into a cross-legged position, his hands folded neatly in his lap. The wolf-jaw pendant of his necklace rose and fell with each carefully measured breath. “I have managed to make contact with Cole and have been assured that rescue efforts are underway. He could not give me a specific timeline –”

“Of course not,” Bull grumbled. When had that strange spirit-boy _ever_ been even remotely specific? About _anything?_

Solas affected to ignore him, continuing seamlessly, “Yet he informs me that Inquisition forces have already departed Skyhold for the Storm Coast and have been advised of our location.”

“They know about the soldiers lost at our camps?” Cullen asked, his concern no surprise to Bull. The Commander had naturally latched onto the topic of their murdered soldiers the moment Bull and Solas had broken the news to him about what they had discovered at Driftwood Margin camp, and as concerned as the three of them were for their own welfare it made sense that the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces should take an interest in restoring the sanctity of their camps. Cullen wanted the bodies dealt with according to their religious or cultural beliefs – the Andrastians would want to be cremated, of course; Bull wasn’t entirely certain how surface dwarves handled the remains of their dead; the Inquisition was such a mishmash of races and cultures that it was next to impossible to predict what the dead soldiers would have wanted (but if anyone would know, it would be Commander Cullen) – and their effects sent back to Skyhold so their next-of-kin could be notified, and he wanted the camps re-staffed to secure the region. Even marooned on an island in the middle of nowhere the man was devoted to his job.

“They do,” Solas replied with a nod, much to Cullen’s obvious relief. He smiled faintly, giving his head a small shake before adding, “Cole was most concerned that you should know this, Commander: the camps will be attended to and the dead handled with the utmost compassion.”

“Oh.” Cullen ducked his head in an effort to hide his blush, then straightened again, ever the dutiful commander. “Ah, good, then.”

“And us?” Bull prompted, hiding his own grin at how predictable Cullen was. Sure, Bull was bothered by the dead Inquisition soldiers too, but at the moment his primary concern was getting his ass off this fucking island and back at Skyhold where he could do some good. The dead weren’t going anywhere; they could fucking wait. The three of them, on the other hand? Yeah, they needed to get the fuck back to Skyhold.

“As I said, we are to be rescued, as soon as possible. The Inquisitor is sending a sizable force to retake Daerwin’s Mouth, after which boats will be launched to retrieve us.”

Bull grumbled to himself, displeased at the knowledge that he wouldn’t get to be part of the team tearing through the apostates and Venatori – and _demons,_ for fuck’s sake! – at Daerwin’s Mouth. Still, as much as he wanted to wreak havoc and tear those fuckers apart, he wanted to get off Dragon Island more, and retaking the port was a necessary step in that rescue. Maybe if he was a good little mercenary there would still be some mages or demons for him to rip limb from limb.

“You said that was the good news,” Cullen said, once more clenching his hands into fists over and over again, his light brown eyes intent on the elf’s face. “What was the bad?”

“Ah.” Solas resettled himself, squaring his shoulders. One hand fiddled with the leather thong of his necklace, coiling the thin strip of leather around his finger. “Yes. Regrettably, Commander, the bad news concerns you.”

“Is it Ly—the Inquisitor?” Cullen asked, immediately catching himself on the informality. Solas waved away his concerns, shaking his bald head slowly.

“No, no, Inquisitor Lavellan is fine, so far as I’m aware,” the elf replied, and Cullen relaxed minutely. Bull didn’t think for an instant that the Inquisitor had any intentions of ending her relationship with Cullen, much less that she would choose to do so using Cole and Solas as the means of communication; likewise, he was certain that had anything befallen Lyre, that would have been the first thing Solas had mentioned, regardless of his good news. All the good news in the world wouldn’t make up for the chaos that would result in the event of the Inquisitor’s death, and imminent rescue or no, had anything happened to the woman Bull knew Solas would have led with that and not _Hey, we’re being rescued._

“Commander,” Solas began, regarding the other man closely, “I have been studying you as you’ve rested and recovered, and no doubt you are aware that I’ve been using magic – chiefly, healing magic – upon you.” Cullen nodded slowly, cautious. “As a result of this close attention, I have noticed something … unusual … about your aura. Something you will likely find quite troubling.”

“Is it the demon?” Cullen asked.

Bull and Solas stared at the other man, and although Bull couldn’t see his own face he strongly suspected his own gobsmacked expression matched Solas’s quite perfectly.

“Demon?” Bull repeated, as Solas said, “I beg your pardon?”

Cullen shifted awkwardly, one hand rubbing over the back of his neck. It was one of his many tells, a sign that he was uncomfortable with the conversation at hand. The man had a lot of tells, Bull had noticed; it was no wonder Ambassador Josephine crushed him at Wicked Grace whenever they played. He couldn’t lie or bluff to save his life, and half the time whatever he was thinking or feeling was written across his face. If it wasn’t for a seemingly endless wellspring of stubbornness - equating in a refusal to divulge any secrets and simply locking himself down when pressed - he might have been a liability to the Inquisition, but all the tells in the world wouldn’t make up for a man who simply refused to talk.

“The Venatori set an Envy demon upon me,” Cullen said, speaking slowly and clearly in an obvious effort to avoid needing to repeat himself. He glanced up, a momentary expression of confusion on his face, and added, “Didn’t I already tell you about that?”

Bull and Solas exchanged glances, and Bull shook his head. “Nope, I think I’d remember _that_ comin’ up in conversation.” Looking back, however, he remembered what he’d seen when they’d first discovered Cullen on Daerwin’s Mouth: chained and stumbling, surrounded by mages … and demons. And Solas had _said_ one of them was an Envy demon. They simply hadn’t had the opportunity to discuss the matter further - Cullen certainly hadn’t brought it up, afterwards - nor had Solas had any idea what the demon was there for. _“Set an Envy demon upon me”_ could mean … well, it could mean a _lot_ of things.

Cullen heaved a great sigh, offering them both an apologetic smile. “There’s been so much … I … It isn’t as though I’d forgotten, but … Between near-drowning and rescue efforts and the like, I suppose I hadn’t the chance to bring it up. The Venatori – Evandrus, the others called him – had an Envy demon that he intended to use to replace me back at Skyhold. It spent time inside my head, trying to … to get to know me …” He fell silent, gazing off into the middle distance between them, his face going blank. No, Bull thought, not blank – _empty._

Solas’s intent gaze nonetheless somehow managed to deepen as the elf leaned forward, one hand clutched around the jawbone pendant. “Commander.” His voice was gentler than before, as though he were speaking to an exceptionally skittish animal, as he asked carefully, “Cullen, do you remember telling the Iron Bull and I about the Envy demon?”

Bull glanced quickly at Solas, startled by the question, then looked back at Cullen’s face. Sure enough, the emptiness written there quickly morphed into something else, something more like uncomfortable recognition. The Commander nodded slowly, his eyes darting back and forth as he considered Solas’s question and the ramifications of his own answer.

“Yes,” he said simply, “I … I think I do.”

For a moment Solas didn’t say anything, and instead the mage sat back on his haunches, looking … not pleased, exactly, but as though Cullen’s words confirmed something he already strongly suspected. He released his breath as one long, slow exhalation, hand falling back down into his lap.

“Commander,” he began, lifting that same hand to gesture vaguely around Cullen, “As I mentioned before, there is something troubling in your aura, and I suspect it’s rather more than exposure to spirits of the Fade – even one as dangerous as this demon of Envy. Your aura is … tainted. Not Blighted,” he added quickly, upon seeing the concerned looks Bull and Cullen exchanged, “but rather it appears to me as though you are caught up by dark tendrils of magic.” He cleared his throat. _“Blood_ magic.”

Cullen nodded again, confused. “I – yes, the Venatori – that is … We already knew –”

“Yes,” Solas agreed, ruthlessly cutting him off. “What I am telling you is, the Venatori – the blood mage – is still affecting you. He is still _controlling_ you.”

Bull was already halfway to his feet before the words left Solas’s lips, and he stood, catching the Commander as Cullen lurched to a standing position and tried to stumble blindly out of the cave. Cullen reeled, crashing into Bull who quickly guided him outside, strong hands keeping him upright when he would have fallen. Once outside of the cave Cullen doubled over, retching into a nearby shrub before wiping at his mouth with shaking hands.

When Cullen finished throwing up his scant stomach contents he straightened, shoulders shaking, and stared blindly off towards the shoreline. Bull stood beside him, waiting and watching, silent. Solas did not join them, instead remaining inside the cave to await their return, giving them privacy. Cullen’s lips moved although he wasn’t speaking loudly enough for the Iron Bull to hear him, but Bull recognized the shape of his words and knew he was reciting the Canticle of Benedictions: _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

Cullen stood, staring off in the distance and whispering the Chant of Light for a good ten minutes before the shaking subsided. During that time Solas kept to himself and Bull stood back, watching the Commander and waiting for him to recover himself. Finally, Cullen straightened, shoulders going back and his head held high, and he turned to give Bull a tight nod. The two of them walked back inside the cave, side by side.

“All right,” Cullen said, perfectly calm. Eerily calm, in fact, with the kind of rigidity that Bull knew meant that anything could tip him over the edge again, tumbling him back into true panic. The Commander knelt down beside the mage, settling into place with his hands resting on his thighs. There was a minute tremble in his fingers that Bull only noticed because he was watching for it; once Cullen’s hands were flat on his thighs the trembling disappeared entirely, although Bull would not have been surprised to discover Cullen’s palms were cold and clammy. The man was holding himself together by a thread: a very thin and rapidly fraying thread. “Explain this to me, and what course of action we must take to correct matters.”

Solas nodded, respect and concern mingling across his face.

“You must understand,” he began, again speaking carefully, as though his words might shatter what self-control Cullen had regained, “my knowledge of blood magic is theoretical at best.” Both Cullen and Bull nodded; they’d had this discussion before. “Blood magic is antithetical to my explorations of the Fade: spirits often refuse to interact with such practitioners, and there is something about the practice that makes it more difficult to traverse across the Veil. Consequently, I cannot say for certain what it is that I am seeing when I look at you and at your aura, Commander, but I know a wrongness when I see it – and your aura is very, very wrong.

“We know the Venatori used blood magic on you back on the coast,” Solas continued, to further nods from Cullen and Bull. Bull felt rather as though his head were on a string that was being continuously pulled, forcing him to nod over and over again. “He compelled you to disarm yourself and return to his custody – acts which I believe we can safely say you would _never_ have consented to under normal circumstances. My initial assumption was that this was the limitations of the Venatori’s control over you, but now I suspect otherwise.”

“All right,” Cullen said again, with that same deadly calm. He looked down at his hands, the fingers of his right twitching ever so slightly against his thigh. “How badly have I been compromised?”

“What’s this got to do with you asking Cullen if he remembers telling us about the demon?” Bull asked, staring down at Cullen’s faintly-trembling hand. Cullen glanced up at him and swallowed heavily before turning towards Solas.

Solas looked between the two of them before settling his gaze on the Commander.

“Again, this is purely speculation on my part,” he reminded them both, and both men nodded in turn. The mage sighed, shoulders slumping. “I suspect that this Venatori’s blood magic is in some way interfering with your perception of reality, Commander – or, at the very least, it is altering your memories in some fashion.”

Cullen rubbed a hand over the blond bristles covering his jaw, that same hand then drifting back to rub over his neck in his usual manner. He had returned to gazing into the middle distance although his face was no longer blank and empty; instead, he looked haunted.

“It never ends, does it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. Bull suspected the question wasn’t intended for them to answer. Cullen let out a dry, humourless laugh as his hand dropped back down to his thigh. “Well, then. And to my question, Solas?”

“As to how badly have you been compromised?” Solas clarified, and at Cullen’s nod the elf sighed again. “I cannot say with any certainty, Commander. If your memories or reality are being tampered with, then to what purpose? We’ve no way of knowing, and no real hope of speculation until and unless we can determine what alterations have been made. Aside from the belief that you had already told us about the Venatori’s Envy demon, can you think of any other moments where things seemed out of place? Where your observations did not match up with your expectations?”

The Commander stared down at his hands, once again resting calmly on his thighs. His brow furrowed in thought, the scar at the corner of his lips twisting as he frowned. Bull watched him, the way he obviously sorted through his thoughts and memories in search of deviations. The Iron Bull had long suspected that the Commander had an eidetic memory, or something very close to it; he knew, from Cullen’s sharing of his Templar training, that a good portion of their time was spent in memorizing verses from the Chant of Light. In truth, an awful lot of Cullen’s talk about training reminded Bull of his own experiences as a young Ben-Hassrath agent. From that Bull could extrapolate other concentration and memory exercises, and no doubt Templars were taught to recognize subtle changes in their surroundings: how else to protect against errant magic, when the mages in their custody could shift reality to their liking? Bull wondered if this part of the Templar training served a dual purpose – a way of staving off years of lyrium abuse and the resulting deterioration of the Templars’ minds and memories. Or did it make things worse, when a veteran Templar could look back to his decades of service and recall a time when he didn’t have to struggle to remember a word or a face or an event, when everything he saw and heard and experienced was remembered with perfect clarity and precision?

A wayward snippet of conversation floated into Bull’s mind from a discussion he and Cullen had had, months ago in the Herald’s Rest. Cullen had spoken of the way lyrium abuse robbed the mind and how for some it was considered a blessing. _“Memories of failed Harrowings, of abominations and demons – who wouldn’t want to forget such things?”_ Now, watching Cullen sifting through his own memories, searching for aberrations and inconsistencies, Bull had to wonder: would the Commander want his worst experiences to be washed away in a blue haze? Would he consider it a “blessing” to forget about what happened in Kinloch Hold, or in the aftermath of the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall, or yes, even these last few days on the Storm Coast? Or would he struggle to hold onto even the worst experiences, stubbornly clinging to even the darkest parts of his self, of his mind? Knowing what he did of the Commander of the Inquisition, the Iron Bull could not imagine Cullen letting anything go so easily, or being grateful for the loss. _To call a thing by its name is to know its reason in the world. To call a thing falsely is to put out one’s own eyes,_ the Qun said. Cullen was the sum of his parts, forged and broken and reforged by the horrific events he had been a part of; to lose those memories – those experiences – would be to lose the pieces of himself. For all that he maligned himself, Cullen knew his reason in the world; to give up even his worst memories would be calling himself falsely.

Finally Cullen let his breath out in a frustrated huff and scrubbed at his scruffy cheeks again. Bull startled, realizing he had been staring at the other man, lost in thought.

“I just … I don’t know,” Cullen admitted, sighing. He gestured at the cave around them. “At times none of this seems real, so how am I to know what’s true and what’s the lie planted inside my mind with blood magic? Maker’s breath, how do I even know we haven’t had this conversation already? For all I know, we’ve discussed this before and I’ve simply been made to forget it.” He drew in a harsh breath as another idea occurred to him. “For all I know, we’re not even having this conversation right now. I’m just imagining it.”

“We are, and you’re not,” Solas reassured him quickly, but Bull could see that the Commander was working himself up again, growing panic making his breaths come fast and shallow. There it was, the snapping of that fragile thread Cullen had been holding himself by. Bull leaned forward and wrapped one massive hand around Cullen’s knee, squeezing tightly to catch the other man’s attention.

“Cullen,” he said, and then, when there was no response, Bull used his _Mercenary Captain voice,_ the one he dragged out for early morning sparring sessions and late-night efforts at keeping the Chargers from being permanently banned from the Herald’s Rest. _“Commander.”_ Cullen’s eyes snapped to his although he was still breathing too quickly. “Hey, hey, listen. Look around and tell me five things you can see, all right?”

Cullen blinked at him in confusion, but even he – who himself commanded entire armies and had his own form of the _Mercenary Captain voice,_ though he likely would have called it something else – couldn’t help but obey Bull’s order. He looked around the cave, glazed eyes drifting from one thing to the next before finally, in a dull voice, he listed off five things: “The campfire. Your axe. A … um … a stick that looks like a snake. A rock in the shape of a nug. Solas’s pendant.”

“Good, good,” Bull said, nodding encouragingly. “All right, now gimme four things you can feel.”

“I … The … the ground, it’s cold beneath my arse.” Solas chuckled quietly but said nothing, and Cullen continued hesitantly, “The weave of my trousers. The … the air, it’s cold and damp …” His hand lifted, going once more to the scruff on his face. “My beard. Maker’s breath, I need a shave.”

Bull scratched at the growth on his own chin, grimacing in acknowledgement. All three of them were looking scruffy and disreputable. Well, more disreputable than usual, in his case. Cullen was obviously calming down again, but Bull thought it best to continue the exercise, just to be on the safe side and to hopefully provide Cullen with the tools to ground himself in the future. Going by Cullen’s confused expression when he had first started the grounding exercise, it was clear the man had no experience with such tactics, and Bull wondered - not for the first time, nor likely for the last - just what, exactly, the Chantry had done to help the other man recover from Kinloch Hold. Clearly they hadn’t been teaching him any techniques to regain control over himself or calm his racing thoughts. Was he just supposed to lie back and think about Andraste? Was that supposed to get him through his panic?

“Good job,” the Qunari said, shutting down that line of thought before he became too angry to assist the Commander. “Now I’m gonna need three things you can hear.”

“The fire – can I say that again?” Bull nodded. “The waves. My heartbeat.” Bull suspected the latter was likely too fast and too loud, but he chose not to comment.

“Great!” Bull said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “Now gimme two things you can smell.”

“Wood smoke and the sea,” Cullen said quickly, neither of which came as any great surprise: Bull was positive he’d be smelling their campfire and the Waking Sea in his dreams for months to come. Although Bull was a little surprised Cullen didn’t mention the smell of body odour, but then Bull was already well aware that humans were not possessed of as strong a sense of smell as Qunari. But after going so long without a proper bath, Bull could definitely smell himself, and his companions weren’t exactly daisy-fresh themselves. Humans, in his experience, tended to smell the worst - not that he would ever tell Dorian that.

“Nice,” said Bull. “Last one: name one good thing about yourself.”

Cullen blinked again, and for a moment Bull was sure the other man would demur, that he would clam up and declare himself to be without any redeeming qualities whatsoever. But then the Commander’s lips tugged upwards in the tiniest of smirks as he said, with great conviction, “I’m the best singer in this cave. Possibly even on this island, although we’ve not mapped it out so I can’t say that with any certainty.”

Solas chuckled again, commenting dryly, “Having heard the Iron Bull sing, and knowing my own skills in that area, I believe you are correct, Commander.”

“Hey, now,” Bull said, affecting a wounded tone. “I’m a great singer.” When both Solas and Cullen gave him the same amused expressions he threw his hands up in mock offense. “Fine, fine, have it your way, Chantry-boy.”

Cullen’s expression sobered, and he threw Bull an appreciative, if somewhat grim, smile before getting to his feet. This time there was nothing hurried about it, nothing panicky in his movements, and Bull made no effort to follow him.

“I … I know we should discuss this more,” he said, a note of apology in his voice. “But if it’s all the same with you, I’d like to step outside for a moment and … well, I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do or where I’m going, but I just … I need some time alone.” Before either Bull or Solas had a chance to reply Cullen quickly added, “And no, I’ve no intentions of hurling myself into the sea –”

_“Again,”_ Bull interrupted, but deliberately kept his tone light rather than accusing. He wasn’t truly concerned that the Commander posed a suicide risk - not at the moment, at any rate - but he was pleased that it occurred to Cullen to address that particularly issue head-on himself.

“Again,” Cullen agreed, rubbing at the back of his neck where the skin had suddenly taken on a distinctly pinkish tinge. “I’m not … I’m not at risk of hurting myself. I just … I need a moment to myself, is all.”

“Understood,” Solas said, just as Bull said “Understandable” and the two of them looked at each other in mild amusement. Cullen laughed – not a loud, hearty guffaw or anything, but still, it was an honest and pleased sound, and it did much to ease whatever concern Bull might be feeling. Nonetheless Bull couldn’t help the small swirl of gratitude that rose up within him when Solas quickly added, “Please do not go far, however. As you’ve said, we’ve not mapped out this island, and we already know there are darkspawn here.”

“And dragonlings,” Bull added, with considerable relish. Cullen sighed and muttered something that might’ve been a rather bad word before darting outside the cave.

Alone together, Solas and the Iron Bull looked at each other over the fire. After a few heartbeats Bull picked up a stick – the one that did, in fact, look a little bit like a serpent if you looked at it from a certain angle – and began poking at the campfire, turning over one of the logs to help it burn more evenly.

“I believe I may have done the Qun a disservice,” Solas said, to Bull’s surprise. Bull looked at him again, lifting his good eyebrow in enquiry, and Solas clarified, “At the very least the Qun provided you with the tools and techniques you needed to function, even as it moulded and shaped you.”

“Well … yeah. That’s kinda the whole point.”

Solas made a small sound that might have been acknowledgement or might have been disapproval. He gestured towards the cave entrance. “The Chantry did no such thing for the Commander. They took a young man and forged him into a weapon, then made that weapon believe in their divine righteousness and the … the _purity_ of their cause. Then they set that weapon out into the world with no way to reforge himself when that world left him damaged.”

Nodding slowly, Bull poked at the fire again, sending a shower of sparks floating upwards to the cave ceiling. It was a little disconcerting how closely the elf’s words mirrored his own thoughts on the matter. Since he’d chosen his boys in the Chargers over a Qunari dreadnaught Bull had had time to think about the ways the Qun went wrong and how it had failed him, and Solas had brought up the similarities between himself and the Commander before: how they’d both been essentially chewed up and spat out by their respective organizations. Part of him – a very large part, if he was being honest with himself – still believed that the Qun had the right of things, and that in general _most_ people would be better off under it. He’d told Lyre, way back when they’d first been getting to know each other, that someone like Cullen would do very well under the Qun, and he still believed this to be true. Certainly, the ex-Templar would have fared better under the Qun than he had as part of the Chantry; no Tamassran or re-educator would have looked at him after Kinloch Hold and thought _“This man needs to be set in the middle of a powder keg”_ and given over to the likes of Meredith Stannard. Yes, the Qun had failed the Iron Bull – he could admit that, now that he was no longer a part of it – but some of its teachings still held true.

“He did it, though,” Bull said, and then clarified, “He reforged himself.”

“Yes,” Solas said, nodding thoughtfully. “He did. Through no help from the Chantry, however.”

“Nope.” Bull let the _P_ sound pop and shrugged his massive shoulders. “He didn’t do it alone, though. He’s had help. You, me, the Seeker … Lyre, obviously.”

“Yes,” Solas agreed again, “but the bulk of the effort – the bulk of the credit – lies with him.”

Bull looked up at him through the flames, admiring the way the flickering firelight cast the mage’s features in golds and reds. Solas always had a slightly fey look to him – something feral and wild and not quite of this world – but the campfire made him look even more otherworldly than was his usual wont. It reminded Bull of all the questions he had about the other man – more questions than he had answers, in truth; he forced himself to stay focused on the topic at hand, however. He could pick at Solas’s secrets later.

“I don’t think I’m the one who needs to hear this,” he said finally, with a meaningful glance in the direction of the cave exit.

“No,” Solas agreed quietly, “but it matters that we are in accord.”

Bull opened his mouth, a faintly sarcastic response on the tip of his tongue, only to be interrupted by Cullen’s sudden return. The Commander raced inside the mouth of the cave, fresh rainwater dripping down his face. His eyes were wide and his expression harried, and both men turned towards him expectantly, a knot of fear twisting in Bull’s gut at the obvious worry on the other man’s face.

“What is it?” Solas asked, his own concern reflected in his voice as both he and Bull made to rise.

“Ships,” Cullen managed to gasp out. He was doubled over, hands on his knees, fighting to catch his breath, and for a brief moment Bull felt a spark of hope kindling in his chest, for surely ships meant _Inquisition ships,_ right?

Cullen’s next words dashed those hopes entirely: “Flying Venatori colours.”

_Well, crap,_ the Iron Bull thought, and grabbed his axe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ended up being a _lot_ more talking and introspection in this chapter than I had originally planned (I blame Bull), but I promise the next chapter will have some action!

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr as salaciouscrumpet, where I'm a neurotic mess who talks about Star Wars: The Old Republic, Dragon Age and Fallout a lot, in between lengthy periods of radio silence and wishing I had money for art.


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